


'If You Judge A Book By Its Cover...'

by GillNotJill (Wynja2007)



Category: Pride (2014)
Genre: Angst, Bedtime Stories, Book fairs, Confronting your past, Dubious Alcohol, M/M, Suspect Book Titles, Unexpected houseguests, Vintage clothing, Welsh Place Names, cross-dressing, jethin., settling in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 76,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/GillNotJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gethin's been working in the shop for about six weeks when the man comes in and asks him for a book he's never heard of...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Fairies on the Doorstep"

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictional characters from the 2014 film. 'Pride'. The characters themselves are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to, or parallels drawn, with the people behind the characters in the film, is completely unintentional and accidental.
> 
> Title from a line in ABC's 'The Look of Love'.
> 
> All book titles used in this story are real, actual books. A full list will be added at the end of the story.
> 
> The observant amongst you will have noticed the rating has gone from 'Teen and Up' to 'Mature'...
> 
> All opinions and expressions are the characters' own and do not reflect my personal opinions.

It was about six weeks after Gethin had started in the shop that the man first came in.

Difficult not to notice him, the tinkle of the bell as the door opened, the shop quiet. But you would notice him anyway, he had a presence... six feet of charisma, shaggy blond hair, gold as honey, dark brown eyes, a face that had seen lots of life, to judge from the laugh-and-cry lines, an inbuilt swagger and the most stupid coat and beret combo Gethin had ever seen... if he was trying to pass for gay, he’d missed by a mile, he looked more like Frank Spencer.

Hmm... Frank Spencer’s bigger, stronger, more handsome brother. Much more handsome.

After making a cursory tour of the shelves, hands stuffed into trouser pockets and holding back the dire beige coat, the man approached the counter.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said in rich, perfectly modulated tones. ‘Have you got “Fairies on the Doorstep”, by any chance?’

Oh, right, he was one of those types. Pity.

‘Not last time I looked, no,’ Gethin said, trying to be polite because, after all, the man was gorgeous and you could always educate ignorance, couldn’t you?

‘No? That’s a shame. Lucy Walker, 1948, Sydney, Australian Publishing Company, sometimes attributed to Dorothy Sanders... I wanted a copy for my nieces...’

Of course it was a real book. And, of course, it wasn’t one he stocked...

‘I’m very sorry... I can ask around, see if I can find you a copy, but it’s probably out of print by now... besides, you might do better with a more mainstream bookshop...’

‘Do I look mainstream?’ the man asked, taking his hands out of his pockets and spreading them wide, an invitation to inspection the glory of his open-necked lavender shirt and tight black trousers.

Gethin found he had to swallow before he could answer.

‘Um... No, not exactly. So... do you want to leave your number? In case I can track down the book for you...’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll see if I can steal one from a library somewhere.’ The man smiled, lips closed, no teeth showing. ‘A joke... Thanks for your time.’

And the bell hanging from the door chimed softly on his way out, leaving Gethin feeling like he’d failed, somehow.

So, during his quiet moments when the shop was empty, he began looking through catalogues, handlists, and in his free time began browsing in other bookshops, second hand ones, in libraries, just to see if he could find the damn book, just in case Mr-Not-Mainstream-Frank-Spencer-On-Steroids-And-Beautiful came back...

And although he didn’t find "Fairies on the Doorstep", he did find a few other interesting titles, so interesting that he even went so far as to compile a list, bashing out a typed copy after hours on his old portable typewriter in the flat above the shop.

After a week, he gave up hope of ever seeing the man again. That week had taken years, decades, to live through for him. But a week was a reasonable length of time to spend daydreaming, he thought, determined to move his mind on from that honey-haired, honey-voiced man. After all, a person might only be in town once a week... and in all that long, long seven-day century, only Gethin’s list had sustained him, the titles on it that would never find their way onto his shelves but that might, just might, be a useful reference source for other jokers... for that’s what he thought now with a sad sense of defeat, that the man had only been making fun, picking an actual title so he could claim he wasn’t making a sly and unkind joke at Gethin’s expense.

Better than a brick through the window, paint-sprayed insults on the glass maybe, but, somehow a bit more painful. It felt personal.

Nine days later, when the door chimed and in walked the Beret of Ridiculous and beige Coat of Disaster, wrapped around the glorious form of a tall and broad shaggy blond man and this time decorated with a brightly striped knitted scarf, Gethin almost dropped the books he was moving to the shelves in shock.

Calm. Why was he not calm, why was his heart hammering, his mouth dry...?

And where was his list...?

On the shelf under the counter, where he put it at the start of every day, just in case he needed it.

Gethin unfolded the paper, smoothed it out ready to consult at a moment’s notice.

A friendly nod, that tight-lipped smile that somehow looked more tempting on this man than a glorious grin on any other face ever could.

‘Morning.’

‘Hello again. Fairies, wasn’t it...?’

‘Oh,’ almost casually, ‘you remembered?’

‘It’s been a bit quiet so I’ve had time for looking... I can get you a copy if you wanted, it’ll have to be imported, and it’s a collectible, so it would be expensive... and it’d take a few weeks to get here...’

‘If it didn’t get intercepted by Customs. Title like that, who knows what people might think?’

‘What, indeed?’ Gethin said, feeling vaguely light-headed and now just wanting to keep this man talking as long as he could. ‘So, is that a ‘no’, then?’

‘I think so. Probably for the best. But thank you anyway.’

‘Is there anything else I can interest you in?’

Had those brown eyes widened, mocking, at the simple question? Flickered up and down over Gethin’s face, his body... Oh, damn, had he read it the wrong way?

‘Perhaps.’ The smile again. ‘Can you get hold of "Scouts in Bondage", do you think?’

Gethin kept his bookshop face carefully neutral but inwardly was doing a triumphant war-dance... that was one of the titles he’d found, and then researched, just in case...

‘Well, "Scouting for Boys" is easier, so they say... you meant the Geoffrey Prout one, 1930, or 1935? I can track down a 1935 for you, it’s a bit foxed...’

(‘Aren’t we all, dear?’ the man muttered.)

‘...but it’s likely to be upward of £60.00... very rare, first edition... Are you a collector of books?’

‘Some books.’

Now the smile was genuinely amused, reaching the worldly-wise brown eyes... was this possibly just a game, not a joke, or poking fun, but an elaborate, friendly game, after all...? If so, Gethin could keep playing for a while... as long as his list was in sight...

‘Well,’ he suggested. ‘Since "Fairies on the Doorstep" is too rich for you, there’s always "Enid Blyton’s Gay Story Book", 1946...’

‘Oh, and who might that be by...?’

Gethin grinned.

‘Published by Hodder and Stoughton.’

The man laughed.

‘What else can you offer me?’

‘What are you looking for?’

A smile and a nod and a glint in the rich, brown eyes.

‘I’ll give it some thought and let you know.’

And he was gone with a swish of coat and a tinkle of the bell.

Gethin sank onto the stool behind the counter and drew in a deep and shuddering breath. He’d come back, he had, and they had talked and... what had they talked about, had it been meaningful, beneath all the double-meanings? Was there a chance of something, anything?

The bell chimed into his awareness and he got to his feet. One of his regulars, member of one of the groups that used the back room, smiling, friendly... flirty, even... Peter, that was his name.

‘Gethin, my dear, well, I did enjoy that one; well written, nicely informed... have you anything by the same author...?’

‘Let me look for you.... they’d would be over here, these shelves... if not, I can always see what else he’s got out, order a copy...’

‘That’s lovely, very helpful... Tell me, was that Jonathan leaving here just now?’

‘Who?’

‘Jonathan. Jonathan Blake? No? Oh, I’m sure you’d know if it had been him, always leaves an impression... tall, beret, usually a scarf that doesn’t go, but he doesn’t care...?’

‘There was someone a bit like that. Didn’t buy anything, though.’

‘Well... Ooh, yes, I’ll have this one... best wrap it for me, they do go extreme with the covers these days, don’t they...? So what did he want?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Jonathan. Hmm?’

‘Ah,’ Gethin took money, gave change, wrapped the book twice round in a large white paper bag. ‘I told you, I’m not even sure it was your friend. Anyway, he didn’t buy anything.’

‘Oh, trust me, Jonathan never does anything without a reason. Just because he didn’t buy anything doesn’t mean he didn’t want something...’

Gethin shrugged, tight lipped.

‘Like I say, I don’t...’

‘Listen, I saw the beret and the scarf swish around the corner just before I arrived; there aren’t two men in London – the country even – who can pull off that look, who would even try. It was Jonathan, it had to be. Well, good luck with him; I hear he’s a bit spoken for at the moment, but that can change very quickly with him.'

‘Well, I...’ 

Gethin had never been more relieved to be interrupted by a customer coming in, looking lost, needing attention.

‘Excuse me. Customer.’

Peter nodded.

‘We’ll have to have a drink sometime,’ he said over his shoulder as he left. ‘Since you’re not bothered about Jonathan. If you like.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said stupidly, because Peter wasn’t a bad sort, pretty fit, really, seemed all right. ‘Perhaps. Maybe.’

He’d steered the customer at the free leaflets about support groups and activities, busy with help and advice which wasn’t strictly speaking part of the job, except it was, because where else could you find out about these things? and the conversation with Peter, the invitation slipped his mind until later, when he was alone in the shop once more.

It made him wonder. If Peter had asked him out a few weeks ago, he’d have agreed at once, free spirit, all of London to play in, and all that, but now, somehow... no. Not disinterested, just... not interested.

Perhaps because he felt a bit more settled now, the neighbourhood becoming familiar, the neighbours reasonably tolerant. Less alone, so no need to accept the first offer that came along, especially when he had a tongue in his head and could do his own asking out.

Not that he did, really. Busy, the back room meetings, the shop. Yes, he went out, had fun, a few encounters, but nothing that mattered. No blonds. Especially not tall and strong blonds with an incredible-edible close-mouthed smile.

Another week went by. A second. Bonfire night, and he was grateful that nobody decided the shop could do with a few fireworks through the letter box or the window. And then the run up to Christmas, just another marketing opportunity, really, fake tree in the window, Christmas crackers on it, tinsel, and just a star on top in the hopes of avoiding all the obvious jokes... busy in the last few days, last minute gifts, topping up the leaflets – everyone seemed to suddenly need all the leaflets, just before the party season began... so busy, Gethin hardly noticed the longest night come and go, but then, suddenly, it was Christmas, the shop shut up, a cold and quiet time with too much vodka and not enough company but that was the modern world for you...

No blonds.

No Frank-Spencer-esque visitations.

So when Peter asked him out, again, in the odd sad days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, he accepted, sort of, spent an uncomfortable evening in the pub until another man joined them at the bar, flirting with Peter until Gethin bought them each a pint and told them to get on with it.

‘No hard feelings,’ he said.

‘Well, that’s apparent,’ Peter said, ‘but...’

‘Season of goodwill, and all that. I’m lousy company, anyway,’ Gethin said. ‘Come round the shop soon, tell me how you get on.’

‘Still friends?’

‘Course.’

But though he thought he’d managed not to ruin the friendship – which wasn’t much of a friendship anyway, he was still no nearer peace of mind, so two nights later, he gave himself a good talking to, decided to come out of his bookshop shell self and hit the town big style...

Life and soul, he was, flirting easily, popular, suddenly, finding he already knew a lot of the faces by sight at least, from meetings, from the shop, all they’d been waiting for was for him to drop his guard a little, and he lost count of the drinks bought him, the drinks he bought, the taxis home to strange parts of town, the furtive journeys home in the grey mornings, still in last night’s happy clothes, and suddenly the year had turned and he was packing away the decorations and staring at the Christmas crackers... yes, that had been him. Getting pulled left, right and centre over Christmas, put it back in its box now, Gethin, until next December...

Maybe not quite that long.

But, really, it had been fun.

Hadn’t it?


	2. Ivan the Musical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin is busy, but not too busy to make a new friend...

As ever, the New Year brought a fresh rash of activist groups, social clubs, associations, all needing somewhere to meet, all wanting the back room. Of course, Gethin agreed, knowing most of the groups would fizzle out before Easter, become incorporated, amalgamated, subsumed, devoured by other associations, other activities. Gethin joined none, but was present at all, to open up and close down and wash the cups after.

‘Want a hand with that?’ a known voice said as he was clearing away after one evening’s meeting had wound up.

‘Peter?’ Gethin found he was, actually, delighted to hear the voice; in spite of ‘still friends’, they hadn’t managed to cross each other’s paths since the disastrous date before Christmas. ‘How are you?’

‘Well, thank you. Rubbing along with Gordon. You know, from the pub.’

‘Glad it’s working out for you.’

‘Really?’ Peter asked, bringing cups across to the sink. ‘Because I felt awful, leaving you like that...’

Gethin shook his head, busy with washing up liquid and hot water.

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘It was a bit... we weren’t good enough friends for it not to matter, but we knew each other too well for it not to feel weird.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Nice to see you again, anyway.’

‘At least I know you haven’t been moping over the New Year... weren’t you just the proverbial good time that was had by all? So I heard...’

Gethin smiled into the washing-up.

‘Did more of the having, actually. Not that it matters. Anyway.’

‘Anyway.’

They stood in companionable silence, Gethin washing and Peter drying the mugs.

‘I saw Jonathan the other day.’ Peter broke the silence.

‘Who?’ Gethin asked, keeping up the old pretence, and Peter sighed in an exaggerated fashion.

‘Beret, coat, vibrant scarf... he’s been touring. I expect that’s why you’ve not seen him...’

‘Or because I’ve not been looking for him.’

‘Of course not. Sorry I spoke!’ Peter finished the last of the mugs, dropped the damp tea towel on the sink. ‘Just as well, maybe. He’s still hanging on to that little trollop from Clapham.’ He stressed the first syllable with an arched eyebrow. ‘But I’m sure it won’t last much longer, fidelity is just not his style...’

A sideways glance to see if any of this mattered. Gethin kept his eyes on his hands, emptying the bowl, rinsing the sink, even though he really wanted to ask if Peter had meant it was the trollop wasn’t into fidelity, or his boyfriend who might or might not be a bit like Frank Spencer after Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother had finished with her magic wand...

‘Well, when you get yourself sorted out with a young man – or a mature one, Gethin love – let me know, and we can double date, some time. Be fun, okay?’

‘Yes, okay. Maybe. Perhaps.’

Peter looked at him with a grin and a raised eyebrow.

‘Always so enthusiastic!’

‘Sorry. It’s just with work, and all the meetings... I don’t get time for more than the odd night out here and there. Might be a while before I find someone like that.’

‘Well, you never will unless you go looking... or is that what all this back room business is about, then?’ Peter gestured round the room. ‘All these meetings, get to know the talent before every gets off their faces at the pub, right? Find out what really matters to them... or what they think really matters, what they want to be seen to think matters...’

Gethin laughed, shaking his head.

‘Thanks for the help, Peter. There’s another one tomorrow night, and the night after, if you’re not too busy with Gordon... though, he’s welcome too.’

‘Well, now,’ Peter said, smirking. ‘Yes, okay. Maybe. Perhaps!’

*

Another night, another meeting. Peter, bringing Gordon with him, Gordon not quite believing it was okay for him to be there, to talk to Gethin, but happy enough to stay and help with the clearing up. Finally relaxing enough to say, ‘You know, I have this friend, he’d be just your type, I’m sure, musical, nice hands... his name is Ivan, he’s in town next week, I can give him a call, bring him to a meeting, if you like?’

Gethin hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and Peter gave Gordon a gentle dig in the ribs and winked.

‘Wait for it,’ he said in a stage whisper. ‘Yes, okay. Possibly, maybe...’

Gethin grinned, shaking his head and deciding it would be easier just to give in.

‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘Mind, I get busy in the shop, you know. Can’t promise to show him the sights, anything like that... but bring him along, he’ll be welcome.’

‘Oh, he knows London,’ Gordon said. ‘Just he’s not here that often. Peter’s met him.’

‘Yes, I’ve met him,’ Peter confirmed. ‘And I’m sure you two will get on like a house on fire. If you give him a chance, that is.’

And Ivan was indeed musical (he played violin in an orchestra), and nice. He was tall, lean, and – unfortunately – blond, but the wrong blond, that pale, icy shade that wasn’t a bit like the colour of honey, and he was all Slavic cheekbones and just a hint of an accent. He came with Peter and Gordon to one meeting, and turned up in the shop the following morning, uninvited, unexpected, and waited for Gethin to hand over to his break cover, insisting on taking him for lunch, and then next time for a drink, an early dinner, fitted in between shop closing for the day and opening for the evening. Talkative when Gethin was quiet, attentive and engaged when Gethin could be drawn to express his opinions, Ivan was an interesting companion, and he said so to Peter after Ivan had left on the next leg of his UK concert tour a few weeks later.

‘But no sparks?’ Peter asked carefully.

‘I wasn’t looking for sparks,’ Gethin said with a shrug. ‘And if that’s what Ivan wanted, he never said.’

‘Are you pining?’ Peter asked. 

‘You get to the point, don’t you? No. Like I say, Ivan... good company, no fire there...’

‘Oh, but I didn’t mean for Ivan... I thought, perhaps for someone you don’t know even if it was him, beige coat, beret, scarf...?’

‘No. Just busy.'

'Perhaps it's just as well - he's still hanging around with Clapham the Common...'

'Anyway, Ivan,' Gethin said. 'He was all right to talk to, though. He’ll be welcome again. How’s Gordon?’

And the subject had turned, but too late, because now all Gethin could think about was shaggy, honey blond hair and rich, brown, world-weary eyes...

*  
January passed, the little spike of extra business caused by people thinking about Valentine’s Day meaning Gethin had even less time than usual, even as he wondered at the relevance, the appropriateness of all this romance stuff for many of his customers... still, he’d sourced some cards aimed at gay couples, they were surprisingly – worryingly popular – and the ‘romance’ shelves were particularly denuded of their cheap, slashy-slushy fiction. The day itself passed, and Gethin cleared away all the tat with something like relief.

That was the same week that saw the cancellation of two of the groups which had started up in the New Year, and the First Quarter Support Group (strictly under 25s) needing to reorganise their meeting from Friday to Saturday, and wanting to bring it forward from an 8 pm start to 7 pm; it was a nuisance as he tried to keep Saturdays free for if he wanted to go out, but it was a one-off, he was told, and, yes, they’d take responsibility for letting their members know, of course...

...which didn’t seem to have happened, since just as he was getting ready to go out on Friday instead there was a knock down below at the shop – people arriving for the meeting, they not having been told...

In the finish, exasperated, he wrote a note and stuck it inside the window with the new date and time on his way out, resolving to have Words with the group secretary tomorrow...

He had a good night though, home before it got so late as to be early, taxi for once, could have pulled, didn’t really fancy the hassle of it and anyway, his heart not really in it, somehow, too many frenetic people, too many disappointed Valentine hopes now seeking desperate solace the weekend after, and he didn’t really want to be somebody’s better-than-nothing, not when they would only have been his Plan B anyway...

Saturday in the shop staggered by. Gethin was tired, he knew he’d been out too late last night with work today, but just for once he hadn’t wanted to be tied to the demands of the clock... and he paid for it with bleary eyes and no appetite for breakfast, but then, the customers, mostly, weren’t in a much better state than he was and finally he was able to shut up for the day and retreat to his flat, only to remember he had to open up again in a while for First Quarter’s rearranged meeting...

He managed to find an hour after the shop closed to drink coffee, eat toast, and recover a little before opening up downstairs for the First Quarter secretary - apologetic and belligerent at the same time until he remembered no, actually, they didn’t pay anything for the room, use of the kettle and the cups was free, and Gethin’s time, too, was given freely...

‘Well, at least we’ll be out of your hair by nine,’ he said. ‘And the rest of the night’s your own.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Gethin muttered. ‘Let me know when you’re done, I’ll be down to lock up. And can you sort your own washing up tonight, please?’

‘You’re not staying tonight? But you always stay.’

‘Not tonight, no.’

Of course, he couldn’t settle. Wondering if they were behaving themselves, if they’d be messing around with the stock, reading the books instead of buying them, putting them back on the wrong shelves. Wondering because, though none were over twenty five, there were a few under twenty one, and that was always worrying. Wondering if it was going to get rowdy, silly, if they’d stay later than they should...

He started up from a doze when he heard a knocking at his door. Nine fifteen, the meeting finished, the washing up done, after a fashion, cups left draining, not dried or anything, but it was better than he’d expected, really. 

‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘See you Friday. Did you leave a copy of your attendance list? Good. Goodnight, then.’

And he shut the door and retreated back to his flat, glad to be done with everything except himself for the day and with the peace of Sunday stretching like a balm ahead of him.


	3. 'Aunty Dilys'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin has a surprise guest...

As Gethin fastened the door of the flat behind him, he realised he’d brought the attendance list upstairs by mistake. Well, he wasn’t going back down to file it, not now – too much like starting work and he’d only just allowed himself a glimpse of the treat ahead of him – Saturday night and the promise of Sunday spreading like lazy butter and the duvet hot as toast... and as for tonight...

Gethin considered his options.

Not too late to go out, not really, but when he thought about it, the effort involved was too much... he settled down with a book and a beer, wondering vaguely if this meant he was getting old...

Not half an hour passed and the echoes of a thumping on the shop door downstairs reverberate up the staircase. With a sigh (he felt he was perpetually sighing, these days) he went to the window to look down and see.

On the pavement outside the shop was a woman... well, possibly someone dressed like a woman, s/he was all dressed up in a black and silver skirt suit, teamed with long black evening gloves, a glitzy bracelet on one wrist, and the wrong sort of heels... and was knocking on the door like a champion.

Gethin pushed up the window.

‘We’re closed!’ he called down, trying not to let his annoyance show. ‘Open on Monday, nine o’ clock sharp!’

The banging stopped and the individual staggered back a few steps to peer upwards and stare at the window, swaying slightly and one hand going to the head where what looked like an elaborate bubble perm wig was starting to suffer the attentions of gravity. Suddenly, the figure gave a little jump.

‘Oh, s’you!’ he (yes, definitely he) called up in slurred, yet familiar tones. ‘Have... have you go’... “Queer Shipmates”?’

Ah, it was not-Frank-Spencer-possibly-someone-called-Jonathan. Gethin found his anger turning to something far sillier as his face, all by itself, decided to smile. He shook his head. Luckily, this was an easy one.

‘No, I haven’t!’ he called down. ‘1962, Archibald Bruce Campbell, published by Phoenix House. Sorry, we really are closed.’

‘I... came for the meeting... not the meeting, but meeting someone from the... the meeting...’

‘It’d over. Finished nearly an hour ago.’

‘Oh. But I was meeting someone.’

‘Sorry. All gone home.’

Not-Frank thought about this for a moment.

‘What shall I do?’

‘Maybe go home yourself?’

‘No... Got to... to meet Luke, he gets all cross if I don’t show up... ‘Nyway, Bookshopkeeper, I heard... I heard you were going out with Muz... muzicle Ivan.’

‘No, just friends.’ Not that it was any of not-Frank’s business, oh, and now the local beat bobbies who had just happened to be passing the end of the street were starting to look interested, especially when the individual below took a step back and twirled experimentally, gloved arms outstretched...

Oddly enough, the skirt suit actually looked better than the beige coat and the beret, Gethin noticed. Worrying, that. He’d had never considered himself as that sort of gay.

‘Izzn Luke here?’

‘Nobody’s here, except you, and me. Everyone went home. Nobody else.’

‘Not...not even Muzicle Ivan?

‘No, he’s not.’

Well, GOOD!’ not-Frank decided. ‘I’m musical, you know.’

‘I’m sure you are.’ 

Not-Frank pulled out a samba whistle and began to blow it exuberantly in time with a tune only he could hear. He swung his hips, tried a few dance steps, almost fell over and the whistle fell from his lips mid-blast, dangling from a cord around his neck. The bobbies at the end of the street turned, falling into that long, slow, purposeful stride that was usually the precursor to some awkward questions.

‘Yes, lovely, very musical. No more, please, I like to think I get on well with my neighbours, mostly.’

‘S...sorry.’ 

A pause, during which Gethin tried to find a nice way to repeat, go home, without it sounding like a rejection. But Not-Frank’s wombling mind had moved on.

‘What about... about... “Cock Tugs”?’

No, Gethin didn’t know that one. He rummaged for his ever-growing list, read through, went back to the window, saw the bobbies bee-lining towards Not-Frank, oh, Dew, that was all he needed...

‘I want “Cock Tugs”, if you please, Mister Bookshopkeeper!’

Grabbing keys Gethin thundered down the stairs, flinging wide his front door in time to hear something from one of the bobbies about improper propositions likely to cause a breach of the peace.

The second police officer turned his attention on Gethin.

‘Would you mind telling me, sir, do you know this... lady?’

‘It wasn’t a proposition, it was just an enquiry for the book shop.’

‘A _book_ shop, is it?’

‘Yes.’

‘But we just heard this person mention certain services not generally found at WH Smiths’... what’s going on here?’

‘Ah. That’s Aunty Dilys, you see, from Abergele... she... she’s on medication. It takes her funny, sometimes...’

‘Ah, yes. Aunty Dilys. And the cock tugs, sir?’

Gethin held out his list with trembling hands.

‘It’s a little joke we have, she... book titles... see? “Cock Tugs, a Short History of the Liverpool Screw Towing Company.” James Birchall and company, Liverpool, 1963... it’s about boats, actually. Maritime history... Sorry about Aunty, it’s the pills.’ Gethin lowered his voice. ‘They’re a bit strong, if you ask me.’

He nodded his head and eased past the police officers to take Not-Frank Spencer by the arm.

‘If that will be all, officers, I’ll take Aunty in and give her some cocoa. She’ll be right as rain in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience. Goodnight, now, thank you for your help. ’

‘Ah, now wait a minute! How do we know there isn’t going to be any funny business going on?’

Gethin stared for a moment, his mind racing. Private property, both over age... true, but not exactly conciliating.

But the Not-Frank added his own contribution.

‘With his own auntie? Really, just what kind of a deviant do you think I am?’ He pushed at his wig, straightening it with dignity, then clutched Gethin’s arm. ‘Come along, nevvy, help your old Auntie Dennis...’

‘Dilys.’

‘...Dilys up the stairs...nighty night, officers...’

Gethin shut and locked the door behind them with a sigh of relief, shaking his head. The look on the officers’ faces had been an alarming mingling of wonder and contempt, and he almost dragged Aunty Dilys up to the flat.

‘Right, then. I’ll make some coffee – I think you need some.’

‘What I need,’ Aunty Dilys said, ‘is “The Gay Boys of Old Yale.” Obviously.’

‘John Denison Vose, I think. The police officer got my list, but I think that’s an old title. Nineteenth century.’ He steered his guest into the sitting room and onto the couch. ‘Dressed like that, though, sure you wouldn’t rather have “Fanny at School”, by Frances Gage?’

Aunty began to giggle, then to laugh, and Gethin went to sort out the kettle, coffee, found himself grinning stupidly at the coffee cups. Not-Frank Spencer was here, he was back, he’d cared enough that Gethin might have had a musical boyfriend to demonstrate his own musicianship... and now his guest had kicked off the shoes now, showing nice legs, really.

‘Yes, get comfortable, why don’t you? How do you take your coffee?’

‘You told the pleece you were making cocacocoa. Cocococccc... Hot chocolate.’

‘You need coffee first.’

‘Oh, all right, then. Thank you. Black and sugary.’

Gethin stirred sugar into dark liquid and set the cup on the table in front of the sofa.

‘You drink up, you’ll feel better.’

He stood leaning against the doorway to the kitchen to drink his own coffee, watching his guest under cover of stirring the spoon around in the mug, sipping the hot, aromatic liquid.

Aunty Dilys’ wig was decidedly skew-whiff, tilted at an improbable angle and occasionally its wearer shoved it a little further onto his head, not always where it should be. Gethin hid a smile.

‘Take it off, if you like. And your gloves, be easier for you with your coffee.’

‘Yes, I... I suppose...’ The dark-eyed gaze wandered across the flat even as the wig and gloves were discarded. A frown contacted the forehead. ‘Isn’t Luke here, then?’

Easy to get exasperated with a drunk, but Gethin made an effort for this one. Attention span not the best, and really, it wasn’t all that late to have been out drinking. He remembered the attendance sheet, then, and went to pick it up and scan the names.

‘Luke, was it? Well, there isn’t a Luke on this list, see? And that was from the First Quarter secretary, handed it me himself, that’s everyone who was here tonight.’

Aunt Dilys moved his head closer to and further from the list, trying to focus, taking hold of the paper near where Gethin held the page to steady it. Their fingers didn’t touch, not quite, but Gethin was sure he could feel the radiant heat from Not-Frank’s fingers.

‘But... he said,’ the big man complained, his voice puzzled. ‘At the book shop, after the meeting. But if he wasn’t here, why did he say that? Why would he say that?’

‘You sure you got the right night?’ Gethin asked. ‘It usually being a Friday. They changed it this week. Some of them turned up last night anyway.’

His guest nodded, but after a moment that turned to head-shaking.

‘Because it was this morning we agreed on it, you see? And...’ He broke off, huffing out a breath. ‘Starting to sober up. Don’t think I want to... Haven’t got any rum, have you?’

‘Sorry, no. Can find you a beer, though.’

‘No. Thanks all the same, but not on top of coffee.’ He lowered his voice so that his tone became confiding. ‘I don’t like to mix my drinks.’

‘I can do you a refill of coffee, then?’

Aunt Dilys shook his head, changed his mind.

‘Please. Then I’ll get out of your hair. So to speak.’

‘I don’t think you will,’ Gethin said, looking out of the window where the local constabulary had called in reinforcements. ‘Police are outside. Waiting like dogs for the table scraps... Brought their friends to the party, too. Can ring a taxi for you, if you like?’

But when Gethin turned back, it seemed the excitement had all been too much for Aunty Dilys. The exquisite leonine head was thrown back, exposing a beautifully sculpted throat, the eyes drifting closed to expose tired eyeshadow and determined eyeliner... a soft, rhythmical breathing that was not quite snoring drifting up...

Funnily enough, although Gethin had imagined spending the night with this lovely more than once lately, never in his wildest dreams had factored in a dress, or snoring, or the sofa... and those imaginings generally featured his guest whispering – or crying out – Gethin’s name.

Which he didn’t know, because they hadn’t been introduced yet...

Ah, well. 

Gethin fetched a couple of spare blankets from the airing cupboard and draped them carefully over the sleeping figure before switching off the lights and climbing the stairs to his bedroom. 

If nothing else, at least he’d have a chance to ask in the morning.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin finally discovers the name of his house guest.

Of course, Gethin didn’t sleep, not for hours, thinking about the man downstairs on the sofa. About 1 a.m. he realised it might be less distracting to think of his guest exclusively as Aunty Dilys, not possibly-Jonathan, not Not-Frank Spencer... it made it easier not to have impure and lascivious thoughts about him...

Well, a bit.

Briefly, he thought about his actual Aunty Dilys and her tall, narrow house with its prim windows... it was as close as he could get to thinking about his mother without pain and shame and anger rising like bile in his throat, that tall, spinsterish house where he’d visited every other Saturday through the summer, once a month in winter... a real character, she was, Aunty Dilys...

And he was still thinking about her, and the summer pebble beach a mile from the house, when he finally fell into sleep...

*

He woke to the relief of Sunday, no problem being up late, but it wasn’t actually that bad, half nine.

Tottered out of bed, across the landing to the bathroom, staggered back again, yawning and scratching, heard a perfectly pitched, if fragile voice from down the stairs, shocking him into full wakefulness as he remembered he had a house guest...

‘Excuse me, Bookshopkeeper... is there a bathroom? May I use it?’

‘Um, yes, yeah... top of the stairs, turn right, furthest along, door’s open,’ Gethin said, and shut himself into his room while he dressed.

It shouldn’t have taken him ten minutes to choose which jeans, what tee shirt, but it did. Light jeans, black tee, somehow it mattered.

His guest still hadn’t made it downstairs by the time Gethin got busy with the kettle, and he wondered if it was manners, shyness or he was going to have a lot of cleaning up to do, but presently, Aunty Dilys reappeared, still in last night’s skirt suit, but minus wig, shoes, gloves and tights. And no coat, and it was cold out, even for mid-to-late February.

‘Well, I’m going to draw some looks on the bus home,’ Aunty Dilys said with a long-suffering tight-lipped smile.

‘Sorry, I’ve nothing I could lend you,’ Gethin said. ‘Not that would fit, anyway.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I suppose I should get moving... what’s this?’

‘Coffee, like you had last night. Black and sugared.’

‘You remembered. Wish I bloody could... Ah... did we...? Sorry, sorry, that’s awful of me... I wouldn’t have woken up on the couch, still dressed... and I’d have remembered you, I’m sure...’

Something in how he stressed the word ‘you’ made Gethin’s heart thump and he felt the colour rush to his cheeks. He decided to start cooking breakfast, something to do, he could hide behind the work.

‘You were looking for someone called Luke, who wasn’t here,’ he said.

‘Oh, Christ! Luke!’ Aunty Dilys ran his hand across his decidedly-stubbled chin . ‘What...?’

‘He wasn’t here,’ Gethin said. ‘But while we were discussing the matter – me from the window, you down on the street – the local beat bobbies got interested. Especially when you started rattling off book titles...’

He was talking too much, garrulous, he was, couldn’t help it, how to stop... 

‘Oh, God, what was it? “Invisible Dick”? No, I was saving that one...’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Gethin said. ‘I brought you in for safe keeping, had to tell them you were my Aunty Dilys.’

‘Well, thank you. Possibly. No, come on, tell me which one it was?’

Gethin lit the gas under the frying pan, began spreading margarine on bread, got the bacon out of the fridge and slid several rashers into the melting fat. He shook his head, though; he wasn’t saying that to Aunt Dilys. Especially not on a Sunday

‘Here, bacon butty, drive the hangover away, sauce if you want it?’

‘Well. You’re just the perfect host, aren’t you?’ Aunty Dilys added ketchup and folded the sandwich back together. ‘Protection from the police, coffee and breakfast all with no strings...’

‘Don’t mention it,’ Gethin said, turning back to the pan where his own bacon was ready for bread. ‘Sort of comes with the job, really.’

‘Only not quite to this extent, I should imagine.’

Gethin shook his head, made his breakfast and sat at the kitchen table to eat, where he could see his guest but wasn’t too close, not wanting to intrude, not wanting to start babbling again... not even to ask his name, better to think of Aunty Dilys, like a cold shower on hot lust any day, that thought.

They ate in silence, Aunty wolfing down his breakfast so Gethin felt obliged to offer more food, more coffee, perhaps?

‘No, no but thank you. That really hit the spot.’ The empty plate brought to the kitchen, the sad, tired-eyed smile. ‘Listen, would you mind if I used your phone? If I can get hold of Luke, he can bring me a change of clothes, if that’s all right, I can get out of your hair then...’

‘Phone’s in the hall,’ Gethin said. ‘Help yourself.’

He busied himself with cups and plates and sink so he wouldn’t overhear, but there wasn’t anything to hear, as his guest was back, in the kitchen doorway.

‘Um,’ he began. ‘Look, I hate to ask, but... if I ring Luke, he’s going to ask what happened, and I’m going to ask him the same and before we know what’s happening we’ll be screaming at each other on your phone and...’

‘You’d like me to ring him for you.’

‘Would you?’ Aunty Dilys asked.

No. Duw, no, get involved in something that even from here looked about to get messy and unpleasant. No. No way.

Yet somehow Gethin found he’d followed Aunty Dilys out into the hall...

‘I, ah... I’d need to know who to say...?’

‘Jonathan. Jonathan Blake.’ 

Jonathan extended his hand, the handshake firm and strong, the simple contact calling up unexpectedly potent responses from Gethin’s emotions.

‘And the number?’

‘Let me write it down for you.’

Jonathan leaned across to scribble down a series of digits on the pad.

‘You can catch me there quite a lot. Which is why I didn’t give you my number when I asked about that book, imagine someone ringing me at Luke’s and offering me “Invisible Dick”, for example, him being just a tad on the histrionic side...’

Gethin grinned.

‘Okay, leave it with me.’

‘Didn’t get your name? Or did you tell me last night and I forgot that too?’

‘Gethin Roberts.’

‘Then, thank you, Gethin Roberts. Best of luck.’

Gethin nodded and lifted the handset, dialling the number, slipping into his shopkeeper mode as the ringing stopped and there was a click. Answering machine, excellent, best result possible.

‘Good morning, this is ‘Gay’s the Word’ bookshop calling; I have a Mr Blake here, Jonathan Blake, asking whether Luke could bring a change of clothes for him to the shop some time today, please? If you need to get in touch...’ He reeled off the shop number as well as its address; he wasn’t sure he wanted this Luke to have his personal number, even if it did mean he’d have to open up downstairs. ‘There’ll be someone here all day. Thank you, goodbye now.’

‘Answering machine?’ Jonathan asked, and Gethin nodded. ‘Figures. It’s not half ten, yet. What now?’

‘I guess you’ve got time for that other coffee. Or tea, if you prefer.’

‘Tea would be great, thanks.’

‘I’ll just run down and open the door to the back room, in case he rings – gave him the shop number, more official, that way, then get the kettle on. We can wait downstairs if you like.’

*

It was more than an hour later when a car pulled up on the street outside and its door slammed. Gethin looked up from where he’d been pretending to sort stock and glanced towards the door just as the knocking started.

Before Gethin could get to the shop door to open up, Jonathan had jumped up from the back room table and hurried down the corridor past the stairs to shoot back the bolt and twist the Yale and fling back Gethin’s private front door.

‘Luke! Over here...!’

And then the shouting began.

Gethin hid towards the back of the shop, keeping out of it for as long as he could, trying not to listen to Luke’s hurled accusations, how he cut over Jonathan’s attempts to explain, growing shrill, louder again when Jonathan manage to ask, why hadn’t Luke been there after the meeting anyway?

‘I... Before it!’ Luke screamed. ‘I said before it, thought you’d come in with me, didn’t I?’

‘An under 25s group?’ Jonathan said. ‘Me? Flattered, but...’

‘Anyway, that’s not the point, you stayed out all night and if you think...’

And it started again, the language worse, the more Jonathan tried to speak calmly, the more irate Luke got until there were banging, thumping noises interspersed with all the usual words, pervert, queer, poof, Luke screeching and swearing and spitting the words like they were poison in his mouth to be got rid of... 

Through the window Gethin saw a briefcase come arcing through the air towards the flat door, heard a bang as it landed, and even as Gethin decided, enough was enough and headed through to try and stop this, Luke started in again, damaging, destructive, personal insults Gethin forever after wished he hadn’t had to hear.

‘And look at you! The state of you – you’re pathetic! You’re... you’re an old slapper, past it, just a sad old queen and... and you look like a docker in a frock, you’re desperate, and cheap and...’

Heading into the hall, Gethin paused to take stock. He could see a couple of suitcases on the floor, one burst open, its contents scattered about from the force of its impact. 

Jonathan sat huddled on the stairs, clutching the briefcase to his chest, a shield or a security blanket, one or the other, and with such a look of defeated pain on his face that Gethin swallowed down a sudden upswelling of rage. 

Nobody, nobody should be allowed to say anything to make another human being look so pathetic, so ashamed, so... so diminished...

And Luke outside, looking so young he was barely legal, surely? Bleached blond hair in a prissy mullet, face twisted and ugly with insults, small and slight and so full of rage as he vomited out more and more vitriol, each word, each hurtful phrase making Jonathan deflate and huddle further into himself. No fight left in him, nothing to argue with, anyway, just abusive language, unanswerable.

‘...and you can come for the rest of your shit this afternoon and get the fuck out of my house! And my life! And you can just go and be pathetic somewhere else, if anyone’ll have you!’

Gethin was halfway across the road after the young man before he realised what he was doing and made his fist unclench. Best not knock the fellow’s teeth down his throat; from the depth of Jonathan’s reaction, the way he’d tried so hard at first to calm things, he really liked this fellow, wanted to make up.

So instead of offering hot violence as he blocked Luke’s line of sight to Jonathan, he stifled his fury and offered advice.

‘Look here,’ he said, trying to sound reasoned. ‘Last night, what happened, he came to meet you after the First Quarter group, got here late. Heard him knocking, saw a couple of police looking interested. So I brought him in. An arrest outside the shop, not good for business. He had the sofa, that’s all.’

‘You’re way too old for him!’

‘Yeah, I suppose I might be, but so what? Look, I can see you’re upset, that means he matters to you. And look at him, you matter to him, too. Now, whatever your problems...’

The young man threw up his hands and rolled his eyes.

‘So where was he then? Bet he was pissed, too...’

‘All I did was stop him being arrested... look, why don’t you think it over? When he comes for his stuff this afternoon, why not try talking to him. Just in case you regret it, later? Just... give it some thought?’

The young man pushed his hands at Gethin’s chest, shoving back from him.

‘Way too old,’ he muttered.

'Yes, we've established that. So... Think about it, will you?’

But he was talking to nothing. Luke flung himself into the car, preparing to drive off, and Gethin had no choice but to return to the trainwreck of a man in last night's gladrags sitting on his stairs and try to find some way to give him back his dignity.


	5. Opinions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin tries to help.

Gethin locked up hurriedly and returned to his guest.

‘Mr Blake? Jonathan? He’s gone.’

Jonathan was still clutching the briefcase to his chest, hugging it like a little child. His expressive eyes were closed, his head resting against the wall and he looked ten years older than he had twenty minutes ago. Gethin offered such comfort as he could find.

'You can talk to him later, maybe. He'll be calmer then, p'raps.'

'Will he? You don't know Luke...' The beautiful, sorrowing eyes opened. 'You really don't know Luke, do you? You don't know many people at all.'

'I wouldn't say that. Getting to know people. Takes time.'

'You know what's worst? That I... What was it? I look like a man – no, not just a man, a docker – in a frock?'

Gethin looked down to hide a smile, but he knew that was why Jonathan had said it, to lighten the mood.

‘Well, last night, I thought, quite a picture, you were. Those long gloves were inspired, really elegant. Looked lovely. I think it's the shoes, prob'ly,' he said. ‘My Aunty Dilys - she knew how to wear a shoe, she did. Little mid-heels like you got, make anyone look rough, it’s just the way they make the muscles bunch up. No, you want flats, with your stature, you’d look fine. Or great high heels, does wonders for the legs, a high heel, Aunty Dilys used to say...'

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head.

'Have you any idea how hard it is to get any shoes in my size?' He sighed. ‘No, probably not, right?'

'Right. How about, I run a bath for you, more coffee?'

'You're really very kind, aren't you? Perfect host.'

He set aside the precious briefcase to reach out and cup Gethin's face in his hands, pull him in for a closed-mouth kiss.

It was sweet and warm and friendly and after it Jonathan’s eyes were a little less distraught.

‘Thank you, Gethin Roberts.'

'Jonathan Blake, you’re welcome.'

'A bath, you said? Coffee?'

‘Tea, if you prefer.’ Gethin picked up the strewn clothes, closed the case, and tucked it under his arm. 'Come back up to the flat.'

He led the way to the top floor, pushed open the door to the spare room and set down the case.

'You can put your things in here, Jonathan,' he said. 'I'll start that bath, get the kettle on.’

He found the Radox – eschewing the relaxing blue variety in favour of the invigorating one – and added a hefty portion under the taps, swishing it round to disperse the trails of orange-red liquid into the water. Having found a clean towel for on the hook, he went to make tea. 

Presently, footsteps, and Jonathan was in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him with a wary, almost shy look behind the pain in his eyes.

‘Look, I’m sorry about all that... Just what you need, an argument outside your shop on a Sunday morning...’

Gethin shrugged.

‘Not quite as bad for business as a Saturday night arrest would have been.’

‘It’s only that Luke’s a bit...’ Jonathan looked away, sighing. ‘Young, I suppose. Twenty three, I thought it’d be fun to bring him out of his shell a little... created a monster, I think. Suddenly he’s all demands and fidelity and... you know, I don’t think he can even spell the word, but... my fault, perhaps. I don’t generally go in for that sort of thing, free spirit, no ties, but he was just so... so terribly earnest, and eager, and... Vanity, I suppose, he made me feel as if I mattered...’ 

Jonathan trailed off, thinking for a moment before continuing with his rambling explanation.

‘He’s so young he doesn’t really know what relationships are about yet, certainly not this kind of relationship... and I’m old enough to know better... I won’t see 25 again, or thirty, for that matter...’

‘Should you be telling me this?’ Gethin asked, passing across a mug of tea.

‘Who else can I tell? Anyway, you’ve said, you don’t know many people. I reckon if my secrets are safe with anyone, it’s with you.’

Just what he needed, to be a repository for gorgeous-even-in-last-night’s-drag-Jonathan’s secrets... 

But the man was trying so hard to get past the hurt and the shame of Luke’s venom, if it helped, surely he could listen, at least? And if it didn’t work out for Luke and Jonathan, well, perhaps Jonathan would need a friend?

‘It’s true, Luke isn’t the sort of person I socialise with.’

‘Oh, I was on about my age, actually. I’ll only ever admit to 29...’

Jonathan attempted a smile that trembled at the edges, and Gethin smiled back, but now he was thinking about Luke.

In fact, he’d never seen the lad before. And, true, the young face had been warped with fury, but the hair – he’d have remembered the hair... so it was a fair bet Luke hadn’t been to any of the back room meetings... why arrange to meet Jonathan there?

He kept the thought to himself – not his business – and nodded in the direction of the stairs.

‘Your bath should be run by now. There’s a towel on the hook.’

Jonathan nodded and put down his mug, making his way to the staircase. At the doorway, he turned and raised expressive, hopeful eyebrows.

‘Don’t suppose you’d bring me another cup of tea, would you, there’s a love?’

With that he headed back up the stairs, leaving Gethin staring, dumfounded, at the bloody cheek of the man.

And put the kettle on anyway.

And wondered if there was anything, anything this man would ask of him that he’d refuse.

And didn’t really mind when he realised the answer to that was probably not.

*

The bathroom door was open, a little, but Gethin knocked on it anyway, vaguely glad the tap end was furthest from the door and so he didn’t have to make full-on eye contact. Jonathon Blake, naked in his bath, just a few icebergs of bubbles and a bath rack between him and immodesty...

‘Come in, it’s your bathroom.’

‘Brought you that tea,’ Gethin said, setting it down on the corner of the bath and turning so he was looking at Jonathon’s face, trying to ignore the power of his upper body, the strength in the contours of the muscles of his arms, the little tracks and runnels the bathwater had made down through the hair on his chest...

‘Thank you.’

Jonathon’s hair looked darker wet, slicked back off his face to show the curves of slight recession at his temples; it made him look serious, brought out the bones in his face, made Gethin more aware than ever of the appeal of his expressive face and rich, dark eyes. But the tragedy was back now, as if talking had held it at bay and being alone allowed all the hurt to bubble up again.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’

‘No, stay,’ Jonathon said abruptly, reaching to grasp Gethin’s wrist with one wet hand. ‘Just... Talk to me? About anything, just... I can’t abide silence...’

‘Okay.’ Gethin lowered himself to sit cross-legged at the side of the bath, the lino cold and hard through his jeans. ‘Read any good books lately?’

Jonathan smiled, shaking his head.

‘No, I think we did that last night... Is there really an Aunty Dilys?’

‘There is. Or was, not sure any more.’

‘Oh, I see. No, I don’t.’

‘We lost touch. She lived in Abergele, small town in North Wales...’

‘I know where Abergele is. That where you’re from, then?’

Gethin shook his head.

‘Rhyl, thereabouts.’ He saw Jonathan’s mouth begin to shape another question, and jumped in before he found himself called on to answer anything awkward. ‘She was a real character, Aunty Dilys. Pub on Saturday, church on Sunday, bingo Friday.’

‘The perfect life.’

‘What about you, Jonathan,’ Gethin asked, keen to get away from the topic. ‘What do you do?’

‘Acting. Small theatre groups, here and there. Tours, sometimes... I’ve not long got back, actually, from some almost respectable rep, but that’s it for a while. I fill in with the occasion stand-up in drag, if I must. It’s not like being a classical violinist, I’m not always in demand... unlike Ivan, for example. How do you know him?’

‘Friend of a friend, that’s all. And like I say, it’s not anything, really. It’s not serious.’

‘I struggle to believe that. Look at you. Everything about you is serious. All that Celtic intensity. You have a really compelling gaze, did you know that?’

Gethin flushed, looking down and shaking his head. 

‘No, I mean it,’ Jonathan said, reaching for his tea. ‘Thanks again for this.’

He gulped at the mug, and Gethin guessed it was a cover to hide his emotions, as the anguish was back in the deep, rich eyes, and even if Jonathan was an actor, and pretending, portraying a role would be natural for him, this was no act, this was real pain on show here. Why, though? Surely he could do so much better than a Luke... was it love? Was it – not desperation, that sounded too much like Luke’s rantings – some kind of anxiety, insecurity? Wasn’t that one of the things they say about actors, that they’re insecure, looking for approval everywhere?

‘He can’t have meant it,’ Gethin blurted out suddenly. ‘Half those things Luke was saying, he was shouting at himself. So young as he is, it’ll be new to him, it’s a lot of getting used to and you know not everyone embraces the lifestyle with open arms. Seen it myself, the ones at the meetings here. Start out scared, find someone who knows their way around, they sort of transfer everything onto them.’

Jonathan twisted round to properly look at Gethin, to hold his gaze.

‘Hmm,’ he said, hiding behind his mug of tea.

Gethin warmed to his subject.

‘Then they have all this new information, ways of looking at things, and instead of being grateful, they blame the person who tried to help. That’s what’s happening with Luke, maybe.’

‘So you think we can get through this?’

‘If it’s what you want.’

Jonathan sighed again.

‘Yes, yes, it is. Because while Luke is insecure, possessive, not exactly blessed in the intellect department, if I don’t sort this out I will forever be the villain here. And I am not. Besides which, he is, at least, pretty, when he isn’t shouting, that is.’

Another retreat behind the mug of tea, almost a wince in the expressive eyes as Gethin shook his head.

‘You could do so much better than pretty, you know.’

‘Could I? Could I really?’ 

Jonathan set down the mug and leaned towards Gethin, one wet, foamy hand reaching for the back of his neck to pull him in for a kiss. Bath water surged and splashed as he slid forward to reach, and Gethin scrambled onto his knees, unconsciously complicit. Jonathan’s mouth was hot from the tea, and he tasted slightly of old beer and stale smoke; it should have been disgusting, but it wasn’t, mellowed by the tea and the need for simple, human contact, and Gethin found his senses reeling as he allowed, encouraged, responded to the kiss, vaguely aware of a trickle of water down the back of his neck from Jonathan’s hand, and it was wonderful and exciting and, if this gorgeous man was going to waste himself on Luke, very, very wrong.

Aware that the slightest misstep would send Jonathan’s fragile ego crashing back down into misery, Gethin ended the kiss slowly and gently, and with great reluctance sat back on his heels to look into Jonathan’s eyes and grasp his hand firmly, stroke his thumb across the backs of Jonathan's fingers.

‘You know you could. But if you’ve got your heart set on Luke, I shouldn’t be doing this,’ he said, even though it hadn’t been him started it. 

‘He said it was over...’

‘He didn’t sound serious about it to me. I reckon, one kiss you can get away with, but more than that’s probably cheating. Better go to him with a clear conscience, though. Not that he’d know, but you’d know. And the make-up sex will probably be amazing, you’ll want to save yourself for that, you’ll be glad you waited.’

‘And if it goes wrong and I end up on the street with the rest of my belongings?’

‘I’ll be here all day.’

Jonathan dipped his head fractionally and dropped his hand from Gethin’s neck.

‘I have to try to win him back,’ he said, his voice hesitant, disjointed as he sought for words. ‘Or I’m always going to be all those things he said, sad and desperate and... do you see?’

Gethin nodded.

‘Yes, I see. If you can get past this, make it work, then that negates the things he said. They were wrong, by the way, but...’

‘I have to try.’

‘I see that.’ Gethin squeezed Jonathan’s hand gently. ‘Your bath’ll be getting cold. Better let you get on with it, I suppose.’

He clambered to his feet, wishing he’d worn looser jeans, a longer shirt. Shouldn’t have gone for invigorating Radox, should have just stuck with relaxing...

He was at the door when Jonathan called him back.

‘Can I ask... what about oral?’

‘What?’

‘Oral. You know, a blowjob. Would that count as cheating, in your opinion?’

‘It’s not my opinion that matters,’ Gethin said, trying to smile, to take it as a joke. ‘It’s Luke’s. See you downstairs.’


	6. The Phone Not Ringing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan leaves...

By the time Gethin heard footsteps on the stairs, his jeans were just about comfortable again. Not that he’d fully recovered from the shock of the kiss, or Jonathan’s parting question, but he had some sort of control once more, and had decided that unless Jonathan mentioned the incident, he was not going to; it had been a joke, obviously. Not the kiss, the kiss hadn’t been a joke, that had been a reaching out, a need for comfort, reassurance. The question as he’d been leaving, that hadn’t been serious. Couldn’t have been. Or it would have been clearer; as it was, no telling if it’d been a request or an offer. 

The thought that it might possibly have been serious didn’t bear thinking about; Jonathan was going back to Luke to sort things out, no future in it, anyway, the man had said, not his thing, fidelity. Free spirit, and all that.

Making sandwiches for lunch was a good thing to do, keep his hands busy, his back to the door. Normally he didn’t like having his back to an open doorway, liked to know what was going on, who was there, but for the moment, it was best, it gave him time to think about how he was going to respond to his guest.

So. Sandwiches. Kettle on again. And he could no longer avoid turning and looking into the living room. 

Empty.

He took a moment and switched on the radio, just for background, just so Jonathan didn’t have to worry about the silence and was bringing through the food when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

‘The only problem with asking someone else to pack for you,’ Jonathan’s voice said from the doorway. ‘They never think it through.’

Gethin looked up. Jonathan actually looked great, salmon coloured button-down, black trousers. And bare feet, which was just impossibly unfair, it made him look like a hippie, an adventurer, a free spirit... accessible. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looked down, and flexed his toes, so obviously Gethin was meant to notice, to realise the bare feet were significant.

‘No socks?’ Gethin asked.

‘No. Nor, more importantly, shoes.’

‘That could be a problem.’

‘Ha, yes, it could.’

‘I’m an 8 ½ myself, being taller, you’ll be more?’

‘Elevens. So, I go home barefoot, or I go in my Docker Drag Specials... still, I suppose they won’t notice too much with these. And at least I’ve got my wallet, I can get a taxi... Listen, I think it’s going to be a couple of hours before I dare show my face at Luke’s, is that okay?’

Gethin nodded in the direction of the tray.

‘You don’t think I made that lot just for me, do you?’

‘As I said, perfect host... am I hallucinating, or did you mention beer at one point last night?’

‘It’s not a total blank, I see?’

‘No, it’s come back to me a bit... God, did I really stand under your window asking about...?’

‘Yes, you did. And you informed me you were musical.’

‘Well, I am, of course... except I can’t remember that bit... did I sing? I didn’t sing, did I? Oh, how many apologies do I owe you...?’

Gethin shook his head, trying not to grin.

‘You had a whistle. Very musical, yes.’ He opened the fridge and pulled out a couple of cans, found glasses. ‘Lager do you?’

‘Yes, fine. Thanks.’ Johnathan ripped the tab and raised the can, drinking straight from it. ‘Cheers. So. Tell me a bit more about Gethin. From Rhyl, got an aunty who lives the good life, runs a book shop – the bookshop, for that matter...?’

‘Yes, that’s about it, really.’ Gethin poured the contents of his can into a glass. ‘Lived in London a few years now, elsewhere, took over here five, six months ago. It’s going well, making a living but not too much of one... this sort of place, it’s a lot more than just selling books.’

‘Yes. Yes, I can imagine... there’s rescuing drunken drag queens, sourcing out of copyright books with dodgy titles...’

‘That, too. But I enjoy it, really. Get to meet a lot of people, too.’

‘Without really having to get to know any of them, unless you want to. My job can be a bit like that as well. Of course, when you’re touring you band together, you’re almost like family... you have to be, you know, make allowances, let things ride you wouldn’t otherwise, because you’ve all got a job to do...’

They were no longer talking about Gethin, of course, but that was fine by him. Anything he could find out about Jonathan was welcome, even if he would be leaving soon to patch things up with a cheap little tart who didn’t deserve him...

‘…I wonder if that’s been what this is all about?’ Jonathan went on. ‘Luke, I mean. Me being away on tour, him feeling abandoned and then, the family feel of theatre groups… so he’s asserting himself, making me know he wants his share of my time, too…’

‘I suppose,’ Gethin said. ‘He’s old enough to understand though, you’d think.’

‘Well, I’m sure you don’t behave like this when Ivan’s away.’

‘No, because he’s not my boyfriend, so what he does and with whom is his business. But even if, no, that’s not how I do things.’

‘What’s he doing at the moment?’

‘Ivan? No idea. I can ask my friend Peter who can ask his boyfriend who might know, if you’re that interested, but…’

‘No. Don’t bother. It’s just, he sounds perfect for you, it’s hard to believe you two aren’t...’

Gethin forbore from asking why Jonathan was so interested in Ivan, or in him and Ivan. Instead, he shook his head.

‘Why not? Good job, killer looks, so I hear… performing arts isn’t that far away from literature… mutual friends in common…’

‘No sparks. Oh, I don’t know, he’s blond…’

A silence frosting the room.

‘I see. Blond.’

‘As in, the wrong sort of blonde. Get you some tea, wash that lager down?’

And the conversation moved on. Each time Jonathan asked about Gethin, as soon as was polite, Gethin turned the conversation back to Jonathan, until he knew where he’d been brought up, what music he liked, what books he really read, what he wanted from his career, its high points: ‘Ice pick, Susannah York… hardly the shower scene from Psycho, but my finest hour so far…’ its low points ‘Stint as a kissogram when I couldn’t turn anything else up, the women loved me, God, it was dire… after that, I decided I’d rather starve… What about you? Always been a bookseller?’

‘No, not always. Just do what you can, don’t you? Found my way into libraries and from there to this. Few stops along the way, you know. But this is like home now.’

‘Not Wales?’

‘No. Not Wales.’

Silence settled on the room, heightened by the tinny, banal chatter of the radio.

‘Want some more tea?’ Gethin offered, although it hadn’t been long since the last one.

‘Yes, please. Well… actually, no.’ Jonathan sighed. ‘What I want is an excuse not to leave.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ Gethin said, ‘whether you drink my tea or not. But it’s not going to get any easier, is it?’

‘So let’s have that tea, then, and I’ll make tracks.’

*

Half an hour later, Gethin phoned a taxi and wrote down the number of the flat on a scrap of paper.

‘If it doesn’t work out and you need a refuge,’ he said. ‘Or if you just want to let me know it’s okay.’

‘Thank you. If it falls through with Luke, I might take you up on that.’

Presently, a beeping from outside heralded the arrival of the cab. Gethin picked up one of Jonathan’s cases, led the way downstairs, listening to the clack of Jonathan’s absurd little heels on the steps behind him.

He opened the door and took the case across to the cab, Jonathan following.

‘Thank you again, Mr Roberts,’ he said, extending a hand.

‘Mr Blake, you’re welcome,’ Gethin said, savouring the handshake. ‘Best of luck.’

*

The flat felt huge, suddenly, empty, as if Gethin was seeing it through new eyes. He cleared away, washed up, went to see if anything needed doing in the spare room or the bathroom, put the used towel to wash, back down to the living room, turning off the radio. No idea how long it would take Jonathan to get to Luke’s, how long it would take to make up or fail to make up, no idea if Jonathan would ring, or when, or what to do if he did…

Well. No point moping. He had a Sunday routine just as he had a weekday routine, and he got on with the rest of it, finding it didn’t fill the time as much as it usually did.

Evening, and the phone still wasn’t ringing, didn’t ring, looked as if it would never ring again. He debated calling the flat from the shop, to make sure the line was working, but then realised if he did, that might be the moment when Jonathan called, and so he didn’t.

Instead he went down to the back office to file the attendance list from the ‘First Quarter’ meeting. While there, he went through the other groups’ memberships, quickly, looking for a Luke or even a Jonathan, but no. He hadn’t expected to find either of them, not really.

After that, he drew the curtains against the early dark, found his old notebook and resurrected his list of book titles, since his original typed list was now presumably forming entertainment for the local beat bobbies; he hadn’t got it back from the copper last night. Typing and aligning the list neatly filled an hour or so, and he made a carbon, this time, so he wouldn’t have it all to do again.

But he had finished, done, and there was still all the evening reaching out ahead of him to be filled... normally, he’d have a bath, but somehow, he couldn’t quite face the thought yet of lying where Jonathan had, resting his arms where his guest’s had been...

…if only Jonathan would call, just to say all was well, he could stop worrying. But then, it probably wouldn’t go down so well would it? ‘Glad we sorted that out, by the way, just want to ring the man I stayed with last night…’

So when the phone kept on not ringing, and not ringing, all evening, Gethin finally decided the only peace he would have would be if he accepted it was Jonathan’s way of letting him know all was well.

And when it didn’t ring at just before midnight, Gethin knew it wasn’t Jonathan.


	7. Hiatus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan didn't ring, and Gethin is left not knowing what happened... until someone comes into the shop...

Gethin loved his job.

He loved the shop.

It was fulfilling, interesting, required lots of different skills, was never boring.

But Monday morning he really, really couldn’t be bothered with it. Hadn’t slept well, somehow, and the early part of the day dragged as he loaded stock onto the shelves, kept up with his paperwork in the quiet times, tried to be helpful to customers, all the while listening for the phone upstairs, even though he couldn’t possibly hear it if it did…

Just before noon his part-timer arrived, bringing milk and biscuits for the back room, supplies for that evening’s meeting, and he handed over to retreat to his flat for his lunch break.

Its sudden vastness made him wince, the emptiness of the living room… how could the presence of one person, for a few hours, make such a huge difference? Well, not every person could. But when that one was Jonathan Blake, perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising.

It was almost a relief to go back down to the shop where he had to pay attention, talk to his assistant Maeve, thank her, take over, say goodbye until tomorrow, reconnect with the job, and the afternoon passed a little more easily. 

Just before closing time, the bell tinkled and he looked up to see Peter advancing on him, an almost stern expression on his face.

‘Gethin Roberts, what have you been up to?’

‘Nothing much.’

‘That is not what I heard! And all that business of ‘Johnathan who?’ when you knew perfectly well...’

‘At the time, I didn’t know him. Now I do, a bit.’ Gethin shrugged. What business of it was Peter’s anyway?

‘I should think you do!’ Peter shook his head in, what, disapproval? ‘After him staying the night here, according to what I heard! Caused ructions with his little tartlet, not that I care about Clapham Common Luke…’

The shop being empty, but for Peter, and it being one minute to closing, Gethin slid past to turn the sign round, displaying the ‘Closed’ face to the external window, and slid the catch across. Peter had become something of a friend, and while not one to tolerate interference, Gethin couldn’t bring himself to just tell him to clear off and mind his own business.

‘If you’ve something to say, come through and say it. But I don’t like to do personal stuff in the shop.’

‘Hmm… Did you tell Jonathan Blake that?’

Gethin led the way through and put the back room kettle on, breaking into the milk for that night’s meeting to steal enough for cups of tea, not asking, just getting on with it.

‘Suppose you tell me what you heard, and then I know what stories are out there?’ he suggested, back turned to where Peter had taken a seat at the table.

‘Or you tell me what really happened...? Really, I know you’re going to say it’s none of my business...’ Peter paused, but Gethin just waved a spoon at him to continue. ‘Well. I just never would have thought it of you, something like that...! And I wouldn’t say anything, but for Gordon introducing you to Ivan... if nothing else, I would have thought you’d consider Ivan’s feelings...’

‘Why do I feel you’ve already decided you know what’s happened? And what would it have to do with Ivan?’ Gethin brought across the tea, sugar, a spoon. ‘We are just friends, you know.’

Peter sighed and stirred sugar into his tea.

‘Yes, I know. But he says he’s working on it.’

‘Oh.’ Gethin fell silent, thinking about the implications. ‘Can’t help that, didn’t lead him on, made it clear, I’d thought.’

‘The last I knew he was adamant that you simply didn’t know your own mind.’

Perhaps that was true. Except it hadn’t been Ivan causing him to wonder and worry and waste his emotional energy…

Gethin shook his head. Oh, he could go through the tale – with omissions – of the weekend, but why should he? It would only sound defensive.

‘So, what did you hear, then? What am I accused of, should I say?’

Peter took a mouthful of tea, his mobile lips pursing as he set the mug down.

‘You had a liaison with Blake on Saturday, he turned up in disguise so nobody would recognise him, and when Luke tracked him down the next day, you tried to claim it was all quite innocent...’

‘Not quite sure what to make of that… is Jonathan supposed to be so bloody irresistible I wouldn’t turn him down, even when he turns up drunk and in drag? Or am I supposed to be some sort of Blake-magnet that he couldn’t restrain himself and I didn’t fight him off? Doesn’t matter, nothing happened.’

Well. Not on Saturday night, it hadn’t. Not before Luke had turned up and destroyed Jonathan’s self-respect. And then it had only been a kiss and a teasing suggestion not acted on.

‘So you won’t care they’re back together again? Whatever you were up to hasn’t worked.’

‘No, glad to hear it,’ Gethin said through his growing sense of outrage, even though he wasn’t, not really. ‘Mr Blake was expecting to meet Luke after a meeting, but it was over by nine-thirty and when he arrived – Blake – I told him the bad news, everyone gone home. Wouldn’t have done any more than that, certainly wouldn’t have got involved, but the local coppers were feeling strict that night and I didn’t want an arrest outside my shop.’

‘That’s very plausible… especially with Jonathan…’

Gethin shrugged.

‘And Luke didn’t track him down either, didn’t have to, I rang to say Mr Blake was here, needed clothes, tried to smooth things when he arrived.’

‘That isn’t what Luke is saying.’

‘Fortunately, I don’t give a rat’s arse what Luke says.’ Gethin saw surprise grow in Peter’s face. ‘Sorry.’

‘No, no… I think you’ve expressed yourself quite effectively there…’

Gethin sipped at his tea, warily waiting. He had a feeling Peter wasn’t finished yet, and he was right.

‘You see, the thing is, I can understand the allure of Jonathan Blake. Big personality, outgoing, fun, in a slightly raddled sort of way… gathers people around him like moths to a great big shiny dancing flame… that has to be appealing to a shy boy like you. No need to do any of the talking, just let him fill up your world with his presence… but…’

‘I’m not shy,’ Gethin said sharply. ‘Quiet, yes. Not shy. I like people, wouldn’t have this job if I didn’t, would I? Standing there, day after day, talking to strangers…’

‘Oh, I don’t know… you might. After all, you don’t have to do much more than sell them books, it isn’t as if you really have to connect… but there’s the thing, lovely, we all need to connect…’

Finally, Gethin had the sense that Peter was getting to the heart of things…

‘…And if not with Ivan, then who? Not one of the young pretty boys like Luke; far too demanding and self-centred. Not someone like Jonathan either, he’s too… too out there for you. And spoken for. Oh, there are lots of quiet, not-shy types like you around, but I can’t see that working, two introspective, brooding young men together. No, there is only Ivan. You need someone, Gethin. Why not him?’

‘No sparks,’ Gethin said. ‘As a friend, he’s fine. Besides, not very nice is it, tell him I’ve changed my mind, let’s go for it, not because he’s him but because there isn’t anyone else? Not fair.’

‘You do have a point there. But, you know something? Ivan probably wouldn’t mind. And, look at it from the other point of view; it’s crushing to know someone would rather tootle their own flute, as it were, than let him help… to realise the one you like would really, really rather have no-one…’

Gethin shook his head.

‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

Peter sighed.

‘I don’t want anything from you, lovely. Gordon wanted me to put in a good word for Ivan, that’s all. So for Gordon’s sake, I said I’d ask. And for your sake, I thought you’d want to know you’re at the centre of some very mucky gossip. And mud sticks, you know. Having Ivan seen to stand by you could only help…’

Gethin allowed the silence to drag out until finally Peter compressed his lips together, shaking his head.

‘Well, look at us… we’ve been much better friends since that one date we had, disaster thought it was… why not just try it, try seeing him as a potential partner and then you can at least say you made the effort…?’

‘Wouldn’t that just make it worse? And, yes. You and me, better friends since. If we weren’t, do you think I’d still be listening?’

‘Oh, get you!’ Peter grinned, playful, unabashed, turning the mood. ‘So I suppose you won’t want to double date when Ivan gets back next week?’

‘It’s probably not a good idea. Unless you get it across that I don’t want more than a friendship.’

Peter nodded, capitulating, getting to his feet.

‘Well, thank you for the tea. And if you need moral support, or actual support, you can always ring me.’

‘I know.’ Gethin unlocked the door, held it. ‘I know you mean well. Thanks.’

‘Even if I was wasting my time. Oh, well! See you later, Gethin. You take care, now. Remember: mud sticks.’

*

And maybe it did, but perhaps Luke hadn’t flung quite so much in Gethin’s direction as Peter thought, because there were no comments or questions from the group meeting that night even indirectly related to the subject of Jonathan and Luke’s row… Gethin caught himself in a sigh. Peter’s time hadn’t been entirely wasted; at least he conveyed the information that Luke and Jonathan were an item again, and however much Gethin hated the thought, still, it was what Jonathan had wanted, or seemed to want. 

So that was all right, then.

It had to be.

The week trolled on, shop and customers and meetings, and if he got one or two curious glances, and a few pointed questions now, he was able to disregard them and continue as normal. So much for Peter and his mud…

The post on Friday morning brought him two slim packages addressed in an unfamiliar, flamboyant hand, all curlicues and flourishes. There were numbers on the back but, rebel that he was, he opened the one marked ‘2’ first. Inside was a cheap and tattered copy of a Shakespeare play: “All’s Well That Ends Well”. The first parcel contained, in similar vein, “The Taming of the Shrew”.

Ah. A message. Very clever, and then a bookmark fell out of the “All’s Well”…

_‘Not quite “As You Like It”, but it’ll do. J.’_

So. Good.

He thumbed through the books, trying not to linger on the underlined lines, the annotations in the same hand as on the bookmark, (if more restrained by space), tried not to think about how these must have been Jonathan’s books, held by Jonathan’s elegant, strong hands…

Tried not to dwell on the fact that Jonathan had taken the time, the trouble, to send the books, to send a message.

Tried to be happy for Jonathan, that he wasn’t alone.

Tried not to mind that he was, because, after all, it wasn’t as if he had to be. His choice. He could go out tonight, if he wanted. Find someone, anyone… he could.

Oh, wait. No, he couldn’t; ‘First Quarter’ back to their usual meeting again.

Tomorrow night, then.

Except he already knew he wouldn’t.


	8. Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against his better judgement, Gethin accepts an invitation to lunch...

Another week, another Monday, and Maeve arriving just before noon for the lunch shift. It was busiest between 1 pm and 2 pm, so Gethin always took the early hour, making sure they were both available for the lunchtime rush.

He’d just ducked away behind the beaded curtain at two minutes to twelve when the bell jingled and he heard a light, slight accent he recognised at once: Ivan.

‘Is Gethin in?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Maeve said. ‘He’s gone for his break.’

Through the indistinct barrier of the curtain, Gethin thought he saw Ivan’s shoulders dip into a slump. Tempting to run away, to pretend he hadn’t heard, hadn’t seen... for a moment, a long moment, he wavered...

It was only that Peter had warned him Ivan still had hopes; if he hadn’t known that, he’d not have thought twice about going back out.

So he didn’t think at all.

‘Nearly,’ he said, pushing back through with a rattle of beads, trying to make his voice easy, natural. ‘Nearly gone for my break. Ivan, didn’t know you were back in town. Nice to see you. Buy you lunch?’

‘I was planning to ask you that.’

‘My turn, I thought. We can argue about it in Danio’s, if you like.’ He turned to nod at Maeve. ‘Danio’s, two streets away. Number’s on the pad, if you need me. Should be back for one, though.’

Scampi and chips, a bit of half-hearted salad and a bottle of cheap white between them, trying to catch up on the news without seeming to care too much what had been happening in Ivan’s life; in a way, Gethin was glad there was only an hour.

The good thing about Danio’s, it was tolerant, within limits. So two men eating lunch together, obviously not work colleagues or businessmen or family, didn't raise any eyebrows. True, there was a tacit understanding that any inappropriate intimacy would be frowned on, although to be fair, that was the same for straights, too. (‘Put people off their dinners,’ he’d heard the manager once, muttering about a het couple sucking each other’s faces in the corner...)

So it was a safe place to bring a friend for lunch.

‘How’s things?’ seemed a safe opener, too, neutral, giving Ivan the chance to pick a topic.

‘Good. The tour was a success, they say. Critical acclaim, which means the public don’t come in hordes, but we did well enough.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘And I came back to a surprise; my ensemble has been invited to join with several others and tour in Europe; it is a wonderful opportunity to expand my repertoire, to push the boundaries...’

Didn’t seem much like boundary pushing to Gethin, but he speared chips and nodded while Ivan waxed lyrical about exploring the edges of modern orchestration and taking the concept of the violin concerto to extremes. 

‘Rehearsals start in two weeks, and I would be away for several months, if I accept. I am used to touring, yes, three weeks, four, up and down the country, but this is different.’

‘I can see it would be a great opportunity for you,’ Gethin said.

‘I have to decide quickly. There are not so many good first and second violins out there, yes, but there are plenty like me, excellent but not quite at the limits of potential...’

‘If it’s something you want to do, you should go for it. Don’t let yourself get held back.’

Ivan sighed and gave a sad sort of smile.

‘That was the moment when you were supposed to say you would miss me.’

‘How would that be helpful?’ Gethin attacked his scampi, full attention on his plate. ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a great career opportunity. Not many of those around, these days.’

His friend nodded, took a gulp of wine.

‘We are friends, I thought you might, that is all. I miss you, when I am even just away in Manchester.’

Oh. Where was Ivan going with this? Gethin took a moment to look for the right words. But there didn’t seem to be any.

‘Perhaps because when you’re on tour you’re more alone, outside of rehearsals and performance. I have the shop, and all the evening meetings. I don’t have spare time enough to think, never mind to get everything done. Or to miss people, even good friends.’

Except that was because all his spare time lately was spent brooding about near-strangers, okay, one near-stranger who always had seemed to be in disguise, Frank Spencer or Aunty Dilys... well, not always in disguise, there was the naked and vulnerable in the bath episode, the shirt and trousers and barefoot moment...

Gethin gave himself a little mental shake and came back to the present, to Ivan’s sad, wistful smile and studious, shining eyes.

‘Look... it’s not you. It’s really not you, Ivan. Perhaps we met at the wrong time, me just getting on my feet with the shop.’ And after Jonathan-Frank-Spencer-Blake had walked through the doors, he admitted privately. ‘So much to do, too busy to give you the time and attention you deserve.’

Ivan nodded.

‘And you are still busy, yes?’

Gethin nodded.

‘But yet you are not too busy to have transvestites staying in your flat,’ Ivan said in a cool, matter-of-fact manner that suggested that beneath the façade, he was really, really angry, leaning back from the table to look appraisingly at Gethin. ‘Not so busy, then, not all the time.’

‘It really doesn’t take much time to throw a blanket over someone who fell asleep on the sofa before you had time to ring a taxi for them,’ Gethin said.

‘I see. So, I would like to hear all this story, if you will?’

‘Long story. Not secret, just not that interesting.’ Gethin finished his wine, pushed the last few bits of sad salad leaves around his plate. ‘And it’s time I got back to the shop.’

He scrorped back his chair and dodged to the counter, taking money from his wallet and overpaying for lunch in his haste to escape the awkwardness. Ivan followed him out of the restaurant, a hand on his elbow, stopping him.

‘Then if it takes longer, I will buy you dinner tomorrow night. We should, we ought to talk. And I would ask anyway, March 1st, St David’s day, special for you, yes? I want to know, I want to hear. I do not believe the things said, but what can I do? Shrug and say, he has not told me, me, his friend? Just dinner. No more. For friendship, yes?’

Gethin hesitated. It was a mistake on so many levels...

‘After all, I take the job, I am gone, two, three weeks after. Where is the harm in dinner?’

‘All right then. Thank you. Dinner, just to talk.’

It was a mistake, probably, to agree. But it wasn’t as if he could claim to be busy; no group meeting tomorrow night, no reason to have to be around the shop.

And it would give him something to think about, other than Jonathan Frank Dilys Blake... 

*

‘He was nice,’ Maeve said conversationally when Gethin returned to the shop alone. ‘Who did you say? Ivan.’

‘Yes. Friend of a friend. Musician.’

‘Ooh, that’s interesting. Put in a good word for me? Or are we not each other’s type?’

Gethin found a smile as he shook his head. Maeve was straight, needed the job, but seemed pretty open-minded and took care not to say the wrong thing. Too much care, sometimes.

‘Anyway, he’s got a big tour coming up, so he’s going to be out of town for a while. Anything much happen while I was out?’

‘No. Sold a copy of that big picture book. You know, the one they tried to ban in America. Oh, and this arrived for you, about ten minutes after you’d gone.’ 

From under the counter she lifted out a carefully-wrapped parcel. Beneath its brown paper and string, it was aromatic, when he took hold of it the wrapping slightly warm, still, and the fragrance took him right back and far away...

‘He said it was for tomorrow... seems like everyone wants to feed you up at the moment...’

‘He?’

‘Yes, tall man, very nice, well-spoken... don’t know if you remember it, there was a thing on TV when I was little, ‘Some Mothers Do ‘Ave Em’...? Reminded me of him from that...’

Oh, hell. Jonathan. Jonathan bloody Blake had shown up while he’d been swanning off with Ivan for a lunch he really wished now he’d never had, and he’d missed him...

‘Thanks, Maeve. Can you cope on your own for ten minutes? Better take this up to the flat, don’t want the smell wafting round the shop, annoying the customers...’

In his kitchen he set the package down on the table, carefully untying the string and unwrapping the parcel. Inside, one of those metal foil things from takeaways, a new tinfoil lid folded over it, scrunched at the edges. He lifted the edge and the fragrance surged out; potatoes, carrots, swede... beef, and the gravy not thickened: Cawl, good, traditional cawl at that, none of this modern lamb and leek rubbish... and, when he lifted the metal dish carefully out of the brown paper, there was a small and folded note under it.

‘For St David’s Day. Bet it’s not as good as Aunty Dilys used to make. J.’

Yes. Except Aunty Dilys had been far too busy enjoying herself to do proper, traditional cooking, no, it had been his mother... his mother used to do all that, and she, and... and she...

Gethin walked away, stunned at the turmoil a simple gift of food had brought to him, bringing up all those long-quashed thoughts, memories, feelings, all tumbling together so he didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry or get on the next train home except here was home now and more than a dozen years since he ate cawl and what was Jonathan bloody Blake doing to him?

More to the point, why?

Or, why was Gethin letting him?

Taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose as if to squeeze the emotion away from his eyes, Gethin steadied himself. He tightened the lid back on the cawl, slid the note away and tried not to read it again, and made himself go back down to the shop and pretend there was nothing wrong until Maeve said goodbye and left for the day.

He was glad that it got busy, that he had a complex enquiry to deal with, and then after the shop shut, there was the meeting to prepare for. It was one he usually stayed to, political, good cause, led by a youngster with an Irish accent and a slightly older Northerner with a knitted hat apparently welded to his head. They seemed nice enough, youthful zeal balanced by earnest common sense; between them, they carried most of their membership along on whatever cause they were supporting now.

One of the items on the agenda was the forthcoming Pride march; it wasn’t too early, apparently, to start thinking about it, only a few months, banners or buckets, protest or party, who would they march with, anyone heard about the route yet, that sort of thing... Gethin stood back, arms folded across his chest, listening, keeping an eye on things.

‘You could join us,’ the Northerner, Mike, said at the end of the meeting as they were all leaving, Irish walking everyone out and he shuffling the papers. ‘Right, that’s tonight’s attendance... what about it?’

‘I dunno. They’re all a bit young... let me think about it. Tell you what, you can have an after-march party here, if you like. As long as there’s no damages.’

‘Yeah? Great, that’d be great, yeah. Thanks.’

*  
Gethin ate the cawl for lunch next day, heating it quickly in a pan on the stove, stirring it with care and watching the bubble of the broth, drinking in the aromas of home-cooked food and fragmentary memory, trying to focus on the now, to forget who had made this for him, who had used to, or at least not to let it hurt.

Impossible, though, and of all the memories it was easiest to think about Jonathan, him taking the time and the care to put all this together, to bring it across to the shop... never mind why, never mind so he was a good cook as well as everything, one cawl didn’t make a gourmet chef, after all, but it was rich and heady with the flavours seeping together in a perfect blend, the meat tender and flaking, all the goodness warming and soothing and it was a much better lunch than yesterday, not only because he hadn’t had to cook it, or share it, honest, although it was a shame he couldn’t thank Jonathan for it. 

Just as well, perhaps.

And there was the afternoon ahead, and after that, he had to get ready to go out.

He’d so nearly tried calling Ivan to cancel, and perhaps if there had been more time, he would have... but inventing a proper reason why would have been difficult and telling the truth – that he’d had a bowl of cawl and it had brought out his melancholy side, making him long for the company of someone not Ivan – would not be kind.

But he had never felt less like getting ready for a night out in his life before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, cawl was made with salted pork, carrots and swede, other seasonal vegetables, and thickened with oatmeal. Recipes date from the 14th C. Later, it was made with beef and once potatoes made their way to Wales, they were added, too.


	9. Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin's night out doesn't quite go as planned...

Gethin got ready for the evening out almost mechanically, wash and a shave, trying not to let the ghost of Jonathan Blake haunt him from the bath, not jeans tonight, not for dinner, even though it wasn’t a date. Just plain dark trousers, a shirt with a bit of colour in it, not too much. Nothing that could look tempting, enticing, as if he was leading anyone on. 

They’d even arranged to meet at the venue so there was none of that ‘I’ll pick you up’ business, and he’d every intention of splitting the bill; it felt wrong, somehow, to set such strict rules in place even before the night started, but what else could he do? 

He should never have agreed in the first place, that’s what. Except it was a good chance to clear the air, and with Ivan going away soon, Gethin would be able to relax, knowing he’d have a bit of a breathing space.

Even so, the evening started off okay, Tube and a short walk to the restaurant, finding it to be not just a restaurant but somewhere offering ‘entertainment’ too, whatever that meant, and Ivan outside waiting, pacing, looking as if he’d been there a while, very smartly dressed, dark overcoat, pristine white shirt showing.

‘Been here long, have you?’ Gethin asked.

‘No, not long. I did have a drink in the bar across the road. I hope you like this place, they have an act on later just for St David’s Day, that’s why I suggested it, to celebrate with you.’

Oh. Sounded like Ivan had put too much thought into this for it just to be to talk and clear the air. Maybe he should say no, let’s go and eat Italian, at least get to ogle the waiters...

Instead, he shrugged.

‘Shall we go in, then?’

*

Corner table, out of the way which meant you could only see an edge of the little stage, but never mind, Gethin hadn’t thought there’d be entertainment anyway. Good food, bottle of red, chatting, him watching every word, possibly reading too much into the simplest of remarks, already regretting this when Ivan set down his cutlery, refilled their glasses, and fixed Gethin with his cool stare and a lift of the lips that was almost a smile.

‘So. You were going to tell me the whole story of your little escapade with the transvestite?’

Gethin had been hoping not to have to, really, but at least he’d had chance to think the salient points of the story through, to rehearse, almost.

‘Let’s start there, shall we? See, not actually a transvestite, I don’t think, so much as an actor doing a drag act between other work...’

He went on with the story as he’d told it to Peter, with a touch more detail; the menacing air from the police, and the fact that he’d been put in mind of one of his older relatives seemed worth mentioning, too... that his guest had slept on the sofa...

‘But you have a spare room!’ Ivan interrupted.

‘Yes. Wasn’t planned, you see, he fell asleep before I called a taxi so I just threw a blanket over him and left him there. On the sofa.’

‘Just like you told to Peter and he told to Gordon...’

And Gordon had obviously told Ivan. Gethin shrugged.

‘Ah, you think I have been spying?’ Ivan said. ‘And what right have I?’

‘More that I don’t see why you care. Anyway, I don’t mind what you do with your spare time.’

‘No, I know you don’t... Well, about this, I hear Luke saying, he from the bookshop is not to be trusted, he will seduce away one’s boyfriend. But, he said it when his boyfriend was not there. And says it to everyone, not only me. So I think it is not as he says. I am willing to believe you are being truthful. Luke is young, perhaps does not know what to do to keep a partner happy.’ Ivan paused to sip his wine. ‘Not like those of us with a few, just a few more years’ experience.’

Ivan leaned back in a ‘what do you say to that?’ sort of way and continued with his meal, leaving Gethin simmering with anger he didn’t dare vent – no, Ivan had no right, but if Gethin said so, it led the way into a much deeper conversation about why did it matter what Ivan thought, when Ivan didn’t matter to Gethin except that he was a friend... but friends didn’t need to explain stuff like this, not usually...

‘When do you have to decide about that job in Europe?’ he asked instead. ‘Not at risk of losing the chance, are you?’

‘I have a day or so, it is no problem. So, at what point do I say, happy St David’s Day?’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘And what celebrations are there? Besides the drinking of stout?’

Gethin tried not to glower, letting out a long slow breath before he trusted himself to answer.

‘That’s St Patrick, later in the month. He’s the Irish one.’

‘Good,’ Ivan nodded. ‘I had stout in the pub before, I do not think I like it.’

‘Well, no need to have it again.’

A silence settled over the table, uneasy, on Gethin’s part. What Ivan was thinking, or feeling, Gethin could not have said, nor did he particularly want to guess. But usually Ivan was the talkative one, filling up the silences as if they were something to be covered, hidden, overwritten.

Besides, he had said when he suggested this meal that he wanted to talk.

Let him do the talking, then.

‘I worry about you, this thing with Luke,’ Ivan began eventually. ‘People may think badly of you for it. You may be alone when you don’t want to, because of him.’

‘Doesn’t matter, not looking for anyone.’

‘I see. Because, I know you said, friends... but will you think? While I am away, I will miss you, even if I am busy, even if I find other friends. So, if you cannot find anyone...’

Gethin shook his head, protest more than refusal.

‘Please, Gethin, do not say no, not yet. Only, if you do not say yes, I can accept that. Will you do that? Will you let me have a little hope?’

‘Hasn’t got anything to do with if I can find anyone else or not,’ Gethin said. ‘It’s just not a good time now.’

‘Wait, then. When I come back, see how you feel then, how it seems to you?’

Activity at the stage area, relief as Gethin realised he didn’t have to answer but could instead crane his neck to see the act... not quite sure what to expect, but then the manager announced a special turn for St David’s Day, and:

‘...Heeeeere’s Phyllis!’

And with a clatter of deliberately awkward heels, a person in a black and green dress, elaborate evening gloves and a tottering, teetering red wig took the stage.

Oh, God.

Jonathan bloody Blake, of all the stages in all the venues in London, it would have to be this one, wouldn’t it?

But suddenly the fact that the stage was half hidden from view was almost a relief; it meant that, in turn, Gethin was shielded from the stage.

“Phyllis” was funny, though, engaging, with an accent that was perhaps meant to be Scouse. She talked about ‘docker heels’, made a few jokes about expectations of being a Liverpudlian, then moved on to discuss an aunt from Anglesey who lived the good life... 

‘Well, actually...’ (acksherley, it sounded like) ‘... she’s from a little place called Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Only no-one can ever say it... and she only ever gets really big letters – you can’t fit the name on postcards, or...’

Perfect. Gethin hid a smile. Phyllis had said it perfectly. 

‘Where’s she from?’ someone in the audience asked, causing a smatter of laughter.

‘Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. Why? Do you know her? Anyways...’

Gethin shook his head in awe. Absolutely spot-on, twice, he’d met someone from there once, apparently even the locals shortened the name...

‘I know,’ Ivan said quietly, confidingly. ‘It is disappointing, I thought it would a proper performer, a singer, perhaps...’

‘What?’

‘You, shaking your head...should I say ‘sorry’? But from what was said before, I am surprised you mind.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Though, I think, I am relieved you do not approve. Persons like that, they give people like us a bad name...’

‘What? No, I don’t...’

‘It is demeaning, and unpleasant...’

‘But, it’s...’ Gethin shook his head, this time in astonishment at Ivan’s attitude. ‘How is it different from you?’

‘What? I do not ever wear a dress!’

‘You wear work clothes, though. Penguin suit, black tie, shiny shoes. To go and play at your concerts.’

‘I like my formal suit. It is not bad to like shoes that shine, to dress with care...’

From where Gethin was sitting, it didn’t look as if Phyllis had exactly just thrown together her outfit.

‘Anyway, why shouldn’t people dress how they want?’ Gethin pressed on. ‘Him, as much as you?’

Ivan shook his head.

‘I do not understand! I thought I knew you, a little, by now...’

‘Shush. He’ll hear. And, trying to listen.’

Ivan subsided, a frown on his face, fingers toying with the stem of his wineglass. From the continued flow of talk from the stage, it didn’t seem as if their exchange had carried far enough to distract “Phyllis”, who was now talking about the high life in Llanfair P.G. as lived by her relative: ‘Chapel on Sundays, Bingo Tuesdays, Jumble Sale Sat’days, honestly, it’s just one mad social whirl, it’s a wonder she finds time to go down the pub...’

It made Gethin smile, remembering the original conversation, and that got him thinking about the cawl he’d had for lunch, how amazing that this very same person had made it for him, and he’d been at a loss, knowing he’d not be able to say thank you.

Not that doing so tonight was likely; he’d spotted a silly bleached mullet near the stage: Luke was in the audience, too.

Could the night possibly get any worse?

“Phyllis” finished to applause, a wink at someone in the audience and a half-threat, half-promise to ‘...deal with you later, cheeky...’ and Gethin could relax again, knocking back his wine.

Ivan refilled his glass instantly, and Gethin was aware of a vague annoyance; he was quite capable of pouring his own wine, but it dawned on him that Ivan had always done so when they’d shared a bottle over a meal and only now did he wonder if his friend had always had him down as a potential partner, no matter what he said, and, worse than that, had already decided what Gethin’s role within that partnership might be.

No. Just... no.

It made him more determined than ever to back away, even if it did hurt Ivan’s feelings. Better sooner than later, get it over with.

Probably.

How, though? Just because he worked in a bookshop didn’t mean he was always good with words.

‘Ivan, it’s not going to work,’ he said. ‘No point waiting until you get back, I know already. Sorry.’

Ivan sat a little bit straighter, laid his hand on the table close to where Gethin’s own hand rested. At once, Gethin took hold of his wine glass, an excuse to move his hand away.

‘Ah, so you have been thinking about it? Well, that is good...’

‘No, you’re not listening. It won’t work. You need to look for someone else.’

‘I see. Is it because I do not like transvestites?’

‘It’s not about liking or not liking, it’s about respecting other people’s choices.’

‘And you are my choice, how are you respecting me?’

‘It’s different, and you know it.’

‘Sometimes, still, your language...’ Ivan shook his head. ‘English is not easy. I am hearing you wrong, I think.’

‘I think you’re not hearing me at all. Look, sorry, you’re...’ Nice, he’d been going to say, but he wasn’t really so sure, now, as judgemental and disapproving of Jonathan’s “Phyllis” as he’d been... ‘You’ll be perfect for someone, but not for me.’

‘But, as friends, yes?’

Gethin shook his head.

‘I thought tonight was as friends, and it hasn’t worked out. I don’t see how we can.’

‘Because between us things are too intense for friends, yet you do not see it should be more.’

‘No, not that. Because things aren’t intense at all. Not for me.’

‘There is a saying, ‘in denial’, I have heard it.’

‘What you don’t realise is, it’s you who is, not me. Sorry. Shall we call it a night, then?’

‘No... not if you are saying, no, not ever. Another drink first? What would you like?’

‘No, my round, what are you having?’

It was a relief to escape from the table and cross the crowded room to get to the bar. There was a row of people waiting for drinks, but Gethin inserted his shoulders into a narrow space and waited until he could get served. White wine for Ivan, and, just to be awkward, he ordered himself a pint of stout. 

Two people on his right were served and backed away from the bar at the same time, and he moved up into the empty space, vaguely registering there was someone at the end of the bar as his order was taken.

‘Hello!’

And he thought he heard a delighted laugh in the voice as he looked across into the happy, smiling face of Jonathan “Phyllis” Blake, now in regular man’s clothes and devoid of wig and makeup. He felt his own face lift and knew he was grinning back.

‘Jonathan, hello. Loved the act.’

‘Good.’ Jonathan slid himself along the bar towards Gethin, not too close, not encroaching, but so no-one could get to the bar between them and interrupt the conversation. ‘I was a bit worried I might have impugned half your relatives, you know... glad to know you’re still speaking to me...’

‘Of course! And your pronunciation was perfect.’

‘I will admit, I practiced for hours.’

Gethin’s drinks arrived and he had to find money, accept change.

‘Um... by the way, thank you,’ he blurted. ‘The cawl.’

‘You’re welcome. I like to cook.’

‘It was perfect,’ Gethin said, ‘spot on, only sorry I missed you delivering it.’

Jonathan smiled and nodded, but there was a distance, suddenly, as if he’d backed away, and Gethin turned to see Luke halfway across the floor towards them.

‘Thank you again, Jonathan. Goodnight, now.’

And then Luke was in his face, shouting and pushing about keep away from his boyfriend, Jonathan apologising over the bleached head and then trying to calm matters.

No point replying, responding, it would just make him angry and if he kept the lid on his temper, it would be over sooner... Gethin picked up the drinks and backed away, to walk into Ivan who didn’t have the sense to keep out of it but instead put himself in front of Gethin with protective drama and thrust a hand out to keep Luke back.

‘Leave him alone,’ he said. ‘He is with me.’

‘What? No, I’m not!’ Gethin protested, dragging Ivan’s shoulder to spin the musician round to face him. ‘No, I’m not, I’m really not.’ 

He backed away and downed half his pint, just for something to do that wasn’t going to be shouting or violence, and with a last shake of his head, headed for their table to grab his jacked and throw the money down for his share of the bill.

‘Gethin, what is wrong?’ Ivan’s voice, plaintive now. ‘I am helping.’

‘Actually, you’re not,’ he said, his voice ugly and hard with the effort of keeping his temper under control. ‘See you around, Ivan. Good luck with the tour.’

And he stalked out into the night towards the tube and his journey back to his flat alone.

Which was exactly what he’d planned all along.


	10. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the wake of the disastrous St David's Day celebrations, Gethin has a talk with Peter...

Left to himself, Gethin would have preferred to hide for a few days, but the following morning found him opening the shop as usual, even though he really wasn’t looking forward to the day; left to himself he would have preferred to hide. 

That wasn’t possible, of course, had to get on with routine, open up, business as usual, and there would be the back room groups to service, too, so he’d better take a breath and just get on with it.

There was always the outside chance that Ivan would say nothing to Gordon, that Jonathan would have been able to quieten, or distract Luke from spreading the tale all through the community like a bad rash... and then, really, what happened? There’d been a scene, a small, very small, incident, and all that had really happened was Luke had done some drunken shouting and Gethin had told Ivan to get lost, and there was nothing there he needed hide from, surely?

And it seemed to be the case, for the morning passed without incident, without comments from any of the customers, and he began to hope that the previous evening's fallout had remained comparatively private. After all, he wasn’t under any illusion that he mattered, or was important in any way. Just, running the bookshop, he was visible, public, a focus, perhaps. In the spotlight. 

When Maeve came in at half eleven, he asked if she could do a full day Thursday, there was a book fair he wanted to go to, it wasn't skiving off, and she agreed.

'It's got nothing to do with last night, honest,' he added, and then realised, stupid, if he hadn't said that, it would have been okay, but now she was looking to him for an explanation of exactly what it had to do with last night...

He sighed. Perhaps he knew, deep down, that he needed to confide in someone.

'Put the "Back in 10" sign up,’ he said, ‘shoot the lock, I'll get the kettle on...'

*

'Wow,' she said when he'd finished. 'So you lot get blokes like that, too? Think they're God's gift, can't see what you can't see in them...? Pity he's not straight, I'd bring him down a peg or two... I mean, it’s the 80s, for God’s sake...’

'It's not just the trying to take over, or the showing me up. I fight my own battles, always have, always will, I know if you react to a little... to someone like Luke, you’re never shut of it. Best to ignore it, really. Anyway, Ivan. Turns out to be bigoted as any, judgemental sort. Can't tell his saints apart either.’

'Pity it wasn't St Andrew's Day. You could have worn a kilt then really worried him. I reckon it’d suit you, a kilt.'

'There's a thought. Kilts, the acceptable face of transvestism. Though there's a few Scots you wouldn't want to say that to.'

'I can do a few more extra hours, as well as Thursday, if you don't want to be on your own in the shop,' Maven offered, once she had stopped laughing. 'If you're expecting trouble...'

'No, expecting embarrassment more than anything. It won't kill me, though.'

Oddly enough, he felt better after talking to Maeve. Maybe because she was outside the community, it was easier to open up. Or maybe she was just a good listener.

'Right, then. Better get the shop open again, coming up on 12 o'clock...'

'I can do that for you, you take your break,' Maeve said. ‘If anyone asks for you...?’

‘Not in. Unless it’s someone called Peter, I suppose.’

Gethin’s break passed uneventfully, however, and he returned to the counter a little easier in his mind for the busy hour.

‘I had someone ask about the meetings you have here,’ Maeve said. ‘I told them to look on the board near the leaflets for information.’

He nodded and thanked her, but it was an unwelcome reminder, because of course there was a meeting tonight.

And, of course, it would have to be the one Peter attended with Gordon...

The shop getting busy, Maeve stayed until the rush had finished, so the rest of the afternoon went fast, perhaps too fast, Gethin following his routine, lock up at five, go through the till, tidy away, up to his flat until it was time to prep the back room for the group, trying not to wonder and worry about Ivan having given the wrong story to Gordon and he passing it to Peter, so the thought of facing Gordon, Ivan’s friend, became increasingly worrying as the time of the meeting approached...

Except when he opened the door for them all to come in, Peter was alone and Gethin nodded a silent greeting as his friend caught his eye. Peter gave him a small, tight smile in return. 

Gethin retreated to a corner with his arms folded across his chest to watch proceedings without himself being too visible. Under cover of everyone shedding their coats and taking their seats Peter made his way round to Gethin’s corner of the room.

‘Evening, Gethin. You’re looking well, considering.’

‘Evening. No Gordon tonight?’

‘No, and there’s a reason for that... oh, don’t worry, we’re fine... can’t say the same for a mutual friend though, or should that be a mutual former friend...?’

‘Ah.’

‘Really, Gethin Roberts, why is it every conversation I have with you is like pulling teeth?’

‘Your meeting’s about to start, we can’t exactly get into this right now, can we?’

‘Later, then.’

*

Later arrived a lot sooner than Gethin was hoping, and too soon he was saying goodnight to everyone, taking the attendance sheet for filing.

‘Gethin?’ the secretary said. ‘Don’t like to ask, but... what happened last night?’

‘I dunno,’ Gethin said. ‘You tell me.’

Peter inserted himself between them.

‘Adam, you get off, you’ll miss your bus... I’ll help Gethin with the clearing up.’

‘Thank you, maybe,’ Gethin said, the door fastened, the two of them in the kitchen at the sink, washing and drying.

‘It never fails to surprise me,’ Peter said. ‘How a nice, quiet boy like you manages to find the time to get into trouble...’ 

‘What trouble?’ Gethin asked, but Peter’s eyes were kind. ‘What is it now?’

‘None of my business, lovely, but I’ve been hearing about fighting and arrests...’

‘What? No, nothing like that, just a row in a restaurant and...’

‘Oh, dear... you really don’t know, do you...?’ Peter put down his tea towel, shaking his head. ‘Come on, leave that and sit down. You can tell me your version first, then I’ll tell you the rest... were you really not there for it...?’

‘I don’t see why I should tell you anything,’ Gethin said, taking a chair and hunching a shoulder defensively, even though there was a part of him knew it was better this came out with Peter than anyone else. ‘No-one did any fighting. No arrests.’

‘And no ambulances either?’

‘What? No?’ Gethin swallowed, frightened, suddenly, the fear clawing at him. ‘Is Jonathan all right?’

Peter nodded slowly.

‘So that’s how it is... I did wonder... Yes, Jonathan Blake is fine. That is, he wasn’t the one – one of the ones – hauled off in either a meat or a paddy wagon.’

Gethin exhaled, stupidly relieved.

‘Look, Peter, it isn’t how it is, there isn’t anything with Jonathan. I just... you said once, he makes an impression...’

‘Oh, he does that, all right!’

‘Who was hurt?’

‘A few random strangers, amongst others... what happened, Gethin? Your side of things, I know you won’t colour it to make yourself look good.’

‘Started out... I dunno, St David’s Day, Ivan wanted to talk about things. You were right, he thought there was going to be more than a friendship and there just... isn’t anything, now. Can’t be, I don’t think. So we had it out over supper, I went to get drinks... didn’t say, Jonathan was at the bar, did his comedy act earlier, and we spoke, just, hello, you know the sort of thing... Luke saw and came over, got upset, Ivan thought I needed help, told him I didn’t, I wasn’t with him, I grabbed my coat and walked out. Half expected to be followed, to be honest with you, glad I wasn’t... came home and shut the door. Sorry if Ivan’s feelings got hurt, he wouldn’t listen, and it’s not just that, he’s got this... this twisted vision of me that I’m some pretty boy wants looking after, let him be the man and...’

‘To take up the story, as I heard it,’ Peter said, interrupting. ‘And I can see where you’re coming from with that, really, I can... Ivan... well, after you left, Luke said something, and Ivan defended your honour, whatever that means, and there were words exchanged... someone threw a punch, and somebody else caught it, and when the dust settled, Luke was arrested, and Ivan taken to the local accident and emergency...’

‘Oh, God... ‘

‘...under police escort. He’s broken his hand.’

‘On Luke’s face?’

‘Ooh, there’s a thought... no, I think he missed and hit a pillar or a wall... anyway, Gordon went to visit him this afternoon, the police had taken statements and retreated, he said, probably don’t want to get involved just yet, so poor Ivan, he won’t be playing that fiddle of his for a while.’

‘Oh. That’s not good. With that big tour coming up and all.’

‘Hmm. Between you and me, there wasn’t a tour.’

‘What?’

‘Well, there is, but he isn’t being considered for it. He wanted to make you think about how much you’d miss him... then he was going to say he’d declined, so he could be near you.’

Gethin dropped his head in his hands with a groan.

‘Don’t worry, I think he’s got the idea now.’

‘What will he do if he can’t play?’

‘Oh, he’ll be fine. He’s not short of money, you know, he can afford to go wherever he wants to recuperate... will you be going to visit? Gordon’s gone tonight as well, just so he isn’t alone.’

‘How can I?’ Gethin said with a shrug. ‘He’s bound to get the wrong idea. Don’t like hospitals, anyway.’

‘I’d go with you, if it would help?’

‘Meetings every night until Saturday, though.’

‘What about an afternoon? Get that girl of yours to fill in for you?’

‘Let me think about it. I’ll let you know.’

And he did, he really did think about it, that night, during work next morning, over his lunch, but however he approached the subject, he couldn’t imagine any way he could visit Ivan without getting the fellow’s hopes up again, and that wasn’t fair to either of them.

‘Quite busy today,’ Maeve said when Gethin returned from his break. ‘Those new magazines are popular, and the romance paperbacks are going well, sold a few of those for you. Oh, and that chap was in that brought you that parcel the other day... wandered all around the shop like a kite that you’ve dropped the string of, you know, all over the place, a bit lost... I even asked if I could help, but he said no, and waited until there was nobody else in before he came to the counter... he left something for you...’

Jonathan.

‘How long ago?’ 

_...Please, just now, surely he only left a minute ago, please, God, catch him up if I leave now..._

‘Not long after you went for lunch... Sorry, he didn’t ask if you were around or anything, just gave me this for you...’ 

‘Never mind, Maeve.’ He took the packet she held out for him. ‘Thank you.’ 

This time, he took note of the numbering system: more Shakespeare – “Much Ado About Nothing“ preceding “The Tempest”. It spoke for itself, really, so he was surprised that a bookmark slid out when he riffled the pages. It held just one word: 

_‘Sorry.’_

Which at least gave him something to think about through the afternoon, after Maeve had left. 

And he didn’t mind nearly as much, thinking about Jonathan Blake, as he'd minded thinking about Ivan. 


	11. Book Fair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin finds some interesting books...

Thursday morning, Gethin wrote down the contact details for the book fair.

‘Now, I’m pretty sure it’ll be impossible to get hold of me,’ he told Maeve. ‘But if something comes up, that’s where I’ll be. I should be back for quarter to five. Thanks for doing this, it’s a real help.’

‘I’m glad to, can always use a few more hours, you know how it is.’

A Tube ride and a brisk walk brought him to what had once been a Methodist chapel and which was now serving whatever purpose it could to stave off dereliction; today, tomorrow, Saturday, it was a book fair, not even the sort of book fair he’d go to, usually, but his research into scurrilous book titles had led him into a strange new world of lovers of old, tattered books and old, tattered bookshops. This seemed the perfect place to unwind and forget about Ivan and Luke and all the hassle of recent days, maybe even find a title or two to make him smile.

The large hall was stuffed with trestle tables, books lined up with their spines showing in re-purposed trays, the sort bread vans use, and crates and boxes. Prices were written in permanent marker on corrugated card: Paperbacks, 20P, 6 for £1.00, hardbacks 75p, special displays of appealing coffee-table books, or rarities... he wandered around for ten minutes, just taking in the sights and sounds, the echo of the vendors and customers, the soft, warm smell of old paper mingling with the burn of dust.

Having got an idea of the layout, and knowing the sort of age of the books he was especially interested in, Gethin plunged in.

Dark blue covers with black and gold embossed lettering, Victorian and Edwardian scripting, the musty, speckled smell of old books with titles from the days of Empire, with others, less well-thought through, and it was these he selected, delighting in each rare title...

He found a travel book, “Kinki Tourists’ Guide”, and since it wasn’t expensive, he bought it. A quick look inside told him that Kinki was a region of Kansai, in Japan, of course, but the potential ambiguity made him smile.

Diligent searching brought several more treasures to light. From the Children’s Literature stand, he unearthed “Fun With Dick and Jane” and a hardback, still with its dust sleeve in almost-bright covers: “Biggles Takes it Rough...” while mouldering away in a box under the table of the Religious and Spiritual stall, amongst all the moth-eaten family bibles and old, torn hymn books, he found “Flashes From the Welsh Pulpit”, and realised this was suddenly the start of a collection, a display, one he could use, perhaps, to make people linger outside the shop, maybe draw them in...

The thought began to take shape and form, and he stepped away from the table with his latest purchases, looking up just at the right moment to make eye-contact across the length of the hall with Jonathan Blake.

Jonathan smiled casually, lifted a hand, and began sauntering along the trestles in a way that might have been him heading over towards Gethin, might have been browsing for books, difficult to say for sure.

But what was certain was that he looked so much better without his Frank Spencer coat; today he was wearing a sheepskin-lined faded denim jacket and snug light jeans. Still had the beret, though, and he was definitely heading Gethin’s way. 

Might be polite to wander over and say hi.

Who was he kidding? He wanted to jump up and down and yell his name across the hall.

As it was, he couldn’t contain his smile, but since Jonathan was grinning, actually grinning, not just that gorgeous, closed-lipped knowing smile, and this was almost better, it didn’t seem to matter what his own face was doing.

‘Hello, this is a coincidence,’ Gethin said, trying to control the laugh, the tremor in his voice.

‘Hello yourself. Well, I did tell you I collect books.’

‘Some books, you said. Yes. I was hoping to find a copy of “Fairies On The Doorstep” for you.’

‘You still remember that!’ Jonathan smiled. ‘Frankly, I can’t imagine you finding much here to put on your shelves.’

‘Oh, I dunno.’ Gethin held up the Biggles book, and Jonathan laughed.

‘And that’s another coincidence – My agent’s sent me a script to look over, “Hey, There, Fly Boy”, roughly based on a Biggles-type hero... don’t worry.’ Jonathan winked. ‘I’ll be auditioning for the role of First Sidekick, not Biggles himself... I think I saw a café on the way in, how about a cup of tea?’

*

‘I got your message,’ Gethin said, over stewed tea and dried-out scones. ‘The Shakespeare.’

‘Ah, good. Sadly, the great bard didn’t write a play called “Luke’s Out Of My Hair And I Don’t Mind A Bit”, but I hope you get the idea...’ Jonathan raised his cup in silent toast.

‘What happened? If you don’t mind...’

‘It doesn’t matter, I suppose... there was a bit of a scuffle after you left... Luke spent the night in the cells, I called up his parents – he’s got an uncle who fancies himself as a top shot lawyer... in return for a substantial benefit to the Policeman’s Ball, I suspect, the uncle sprang Luke on the understanding he be taken straight home to Mummy and not venture into the nasty side of the city to play with the rough boys ever again... and I owe you an apology, I think.’ He paused to gather himself, continuing in a very different, singing voice. ‘I used a Welsh accent when I rang... you might get the blame...’

Gethin shook his head.

‘You don’t sound a bit like me!’

‘Does it matter? Luke’s mother will just say someone with a Welsh accent wanting to let them know he needed rescue... I know, I’m a dreadful, terrible man...’ 

He sipped tea and played with scone crumbs, all his attention on the plate.

‘When I met you,’ he went on slowly, ‘I’d not long got to know Luke. I so nearly backed away from him, but then... well, things happened. I had some bad news... I’m not saying Luke helped me through it – in fact, he was quite the opposite of helpful, but he did keep me busy until I got sorted out a little. Then work took me away and...’

He sighed, twisting the cup in its saucer.

‘Left it too late, didn’t I? Always do, so when I got back, you were being touted as Ivan’s latest groupie and I was still entangled with Luke...’ He looked up suddenly. ‘But you were so nice, that night, so damn kind next day...’

‘There isn’t anyone,’ Gethin said. ‘Not Ivan, not anyone. I tried to make that plain last night.’

‘Yes, you did... I think even Ivan got the message... Sorry to spoil your night.’

‘Actually, Phyllis and her stories about aunty were the highlight of the evening.’

‘Was she, was she really...?’ Jonathan smiled, distracted. ‘I wanted to call her Dilys, but it seemed too personal to you, so...’

‘I loved how you said the name of the village.’

‘Oh, what village might that be?’ 

Gethin smiled. 

‘The one in Anglesey, the one where by the time you’ve finished reading the road sign, you’re out the other end of it. You did it perfectly. And you did it twice.’

‘Oh, that one, yes. You know, I offered to buy that bloke a pint if he asked me which one, so I’d have to say it again... the second time is always more impressive.’

Gethin had to work his mouth hard to stop himself from smirking.

‘So, Luke’s gone... does that mean you’re homeless?’

‘Rent’s paid up for another two weeks. I’m bound to be able to find someone to put me up.’ He raised his eyebrow at the double-meaning. ‘So to speak.’

The tea was cold, the scones inedible. Still Gethin sat, worried that to move would be to break the spell, that to do so would make this strange, wonderful man disappear again.

Gethin sighed, and Jonathan sighed, they both reached for their cups at the same moment, mirroring each other. Meant to mean you were in tune with someone, wasn’t it? Well, if Jonathan didn’t speak soon, he’d just have to say something...

‘I suppose we’d better either get more tea or look at the books again,’ Jonathan said. ‘You never know, we might just turn up a previously-undiscovered work by Shakespeare. Possibly one called “I’ve Been Trying To Decide If The Reason You Haven’t Asked Me Out Yet Is Because You’re Waiting For Me To Ask You Out Or If It’s Because You Don’t Actually Fancy Me After All”. But I don’t think there’s much hope, is there?’

‘Oh, I dunno,’ Gethin said. ‘There’s all kinds in there. There might even be one called “If I Thought That’s Why You Were Hanging About I’d Already Have Asked You, So What Are You Doing Tonight, Then?” You never know.’

Jonathan laughed.

‘No, you never do, do you?’


	12. First Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin takes Jonathan back to the flat...

The journey back to the shop passed in a surreal blur for Gethin. Jonathan insisted on helping carry the books – they’d found several more to add to the collection – and bounced along behind, ahead, off to the side, not so much walking with Gethin as orbiting him.

They took seats on the tube and Jonathan perforce had to sit still for a while, and Gethin remembered Maeve’s kite analogy with a smile. Not that today Jonathan had been adrift, as if someone had let go of his string, but more as if he was determined to ignore the fact that there even was such a concept as string to begin with. 

As for the journey itself, Jonathan spent it alternating between talking, questioning, laughing, and silently listening and smiling.

‘Could wish this carriage was a bit fuller,’ he said softly to Gethin as the train pulled out of the station. ‘We’d have to squeeze up a bit. I’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

And Gethin had laughed and agreed that, yes, yes he wouldn’t have minded that, not really.

Not at all, in fact.

They made it to the shop at around ten to five, Maeve looking up and smiling so hard to see the two of them together that she dimpled.

‘Good day?’ Gethin asked.

‘Fine, no problems, quite a few sales, lots of enquiries about meetings...’ She looked beyond him to Jonathan and smiled even more. ‘I see your friend found you, then?’

‘What?’ Gethin asked, and Jonathan came forward to lean on the counter and look at Maeve with something akin to adoration in his beautiful brown eyes.

‘Miss Bookshop, I could kiss you.’

‘Oh, that sounds wonderful!’ she said. ‘Except I don’t think your heart would be in it, or that my boss would approve...’

‘Ha! You deserve a raise, darling. Geth, whatever you’re paying this girl, it’s not enough.’

‘I know, but why, particularly?’

‘When I came in today, she told me exactly where you’d gone and that I should stop being silly and do something about it. So you see, it wasn’t really a coincidence that I was at the book fair... although, in fairness, I had intended going on Saturday... Old cookery books, that’s my thing.’

‘Old cookery books. No wonder you knew how to make a decent caul.’

‘Oh, if you think that was good, you should see my fairy cakes.’

He winked, causing Maeve to giggle almost hysterically and cover her mouth with her hand.

‘Oh, I am sorry!’ she gasped. ‘It was just how you said it...’

‘Which is exactly why I said it how I said it, my dear...’

‘All right, Jonathan, stop flirting with the staff, go sit down through there somewhere.’ Gethin waved towards the back room. ‘Take your coat off.’

‘You don’t mind me telling him, do you?’ Maeve asked wistfully when Jonathan had swished through the beaded curtain. ‘Only, he seems really keen, and nice, and when you knew you’d missed him the other day you did sound disappointed, you know...’

‘No, I don’t mind,’ Gethin said. ‘This time. Because it’s Jonathan. All right, thank you again for minding the shop, see you tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Gethin.’ Maeve grabbed her coat and her bag from beneath the counter. ‘Bye.’

*

Gethin locked up, turned the sign to closed, and went through to the back room where Jonathan had made tea and found the biscuits.

‘There’s a meeting tonight,’ Gethin said. ‘Some political thing, starts at seven thirty. That’s their biscuits, but since they don’t pay for them...’

‘Socialism in action,’ Jonathan said, ‘share and share alike.’

‘That’s the only thing with the meetings; I have to be around to get them started and clear up after. I usually sit in, make sure things don’t get out of hand.’

‘That’s a lot of extra work. Hope it pays well?’

Gethin shook his head. 

‘They can’t afford it. If I didn’t let them use the back room, they wouldn’t meet. Anyway, it passes the evenings. I keep Saturday nights free, usually, and not every group meets every week; I get a couple of free nights, mostly. There’s a list... I suppose I’m trying to say, I have plenty of free time, but not for going out, not really...’

‘Well, when I’m working, it tends to be afternoon rehearsals, evening performances,’ Jonathan said. ‘Not entirely dissimilar.’

‘So there’s a couple of hours, if you’d like to have an early supper. Maybe. Little place round the corner does a good chicken in a basket?’

‘Oh, such culinary elegance!’ Jonathan laughed. ‘You know, I’d settle for bacon sandwiches and more tea; if it’s all the same to you.’

‘Come on up to the flat, then. Bring your tea, I’ll see what I can find.

*

And, really, it was wonderful, better than dinner at the Ritz... good company, home-cooked food, cold beer.

They sat opposite each other at the little table with the red Formica top, doing that getting-to-know-you thing that is usually so excruciatingly terrifying, in case you get it wrong, in case the other person turns out to be awful, or you manage to make yourself sound like a complete fool, but it wasn’t a bit scary, not really, not with Jonathan. He had a wealth of acting stories and knew how to dip in and out of them to change the pace, or how to ask a general question that still gave Gethin the chance to open up about himself, just a bit, just as much as he was easy with.

So Gethin admitted, yes, he knew a few words of Welsh, not too many, because you were encouraged to stick to English at school, forward-thinking they said it was, not to hang on to the old language, and besides, the old women of the villages liked that they could talk about you behind your back while standing in front of you in the shops and at bus stops. In return, Jonathan talked about an elderly mother, the family home – ‘She still keeps my room tidied out for me, I stay, sometimes, and she lets me keep a lot of my bits and pieces there... obviously, not everything... she’d be pinching my handbags and wearing all the jewellery to whist drives...’

Gethin laughed. 

‘I haven’t made a point of telling her, and she’s never brought it up,’ Jonathan went on. ‘Suppose I’ve been independent long enough that I don’t feel the need, really. Some would say it’s cowardice, me, I think it’s kindness, really. She’s a lot older – well, mothers generally are older, but I mean... she had me late, she’s just... it could be too much for her. She’s a sweetie. Wouldn’t want to upset her.’ He paused, tipping his head to one side. ‘Tricky things, families.’

This was Gethin’s opportunity to speak up, he knew, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to spoil the mood, and when he didn’t answer, Jonathan tipped his glass and drained down the remains of his beer.

‘Well, time I wasn’t here... you’ll be needing to prepare for your politicals.’

‘You’re welcome to stay,’ Gethin said. ‘I can just get the group sorted out and come back up...’

Jonathan sighed and got to his feet.

‘It’s tempting, but... always leave them wanting more, as they say. Don’t want to wear out my welcome, not when it was such a nice welcome...’

‘No danger of that,’ Gethin said softly. ‘I’ll walk you down, then. You’ve got the number for the flat, and the shop?’

‘Yes, thanks. And thank you – it’s been lovely, really. You’ve got Saturday free, you said?’

‘I have, yes.’

‘We could go out, if you wanted. A drink, maybe?’

‘I’d like that.’

The foot of the stairs. As soon as Gethin opened the front door, Jonathan would go out through it, and it seemed like forever until Saturday...

‘Sorry it wasn’t a more exciting first date, but thank you for staying.’

‘No, I meant it – just getting to know you, a bit, was lovely. People don’t sit and talk enough, do they?’

‘Probably not. Well.’

‘Well.’ Jonathan seemed to be waiting for something, his smile becoming perhaps a little fixed. ‘Gethin, if this was a date, shouldn’t it end with more than ‘Well’, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, gosh, sorry.’

Gethin felt himself flush, and stepped forward to kiss Jonathan on the cheek. Before he could step back, strong hands held him and his face was gently turned.

‘Oh, I think we both know you can do better than that... unless you don’t want to?’

‘No, of course I...’

And Jonathan kissed him.

It was like the last time, only better, or it was as if that kiss had never ended, that all this time had been spent locked inside Jonathan’s aura, his own arms hugging tight, the heat of Jonathan’s breath, and the soft warmth of his mouth, the spike of Gethin’s senses, and he was trembling, shaking, his heart knocking, and knocking and...

No, there really was a knocking, and he broke out of the kiss, laughing and smiling and apologising, shaking his head as someone outside kept hammering on the door of the shop, the noise echoing through the walls.

‘Just a minute!’ he shouted. ‘See, that’s why – didn’t think I’d be able to stop, if I started.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Jonathan said, reluctantly stepping back. ‘Well, do your shopkeeper stuff, then. I’ll sidle out, save your blushes...’

‘No, why should you?’ He unlocked the front door, poking his head out to where the secretary of that night’s group was waiting. ‘I’ll be round in a minute, Mike. Got a friend visiting.’

On the doorstep he thought he saw a challenge in Jonathan’s eye, and grinned.

‘I don’t think we’d quite done, had we, Jonathan? My turn.’

And while he wasn’t, perhaps, quite as thorough as Jonathan had been, and there was a stunned silence from the waiting secretary, it was still wonderful.

‘About Saturday,’ Jonathan said, squeezing Gethin’s shoulders with his hands. ‘Can I bring some things over and get ready here? Is that all right? I thought we could try ‘The Frog in a Tutu’, get there around eight before it gets busy...?’

‘Yes, fine, I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Goodnight, then. Thanks again for a great day.’

‘Come on, Gethin, it’s freezing out here!’ the secretary called across. 

‘All right, Mike! With you in a minute.’ He waved Jonathan off, locked up, crossed through to the shop and opened the door. ‘Come in, then.’

‘Are we not set up yet?’ Mike asked. ‘What’s been going on? No, don’t tell me – I can guess. You kept that quiet... Look my lot’ll be here in ten minutes! And someone’s been at the biscuits...’

‘Remind me again how much you pay for the use of the room. And refreshments?’

‘Fair point.’ Mike headed for the stacked plastic chairs and began to unstack them and spread them in rough lines in the room while Gethin loaded cups onto a tray near the kettle ready for tea break. ‘We’ve got a guest speaker tonight, you staying?’

‘No, don’t think so, thanks. I’ll be down at nine to see you out, though. Right, that’s you, then. Have a good meeting, see you later.’

He went back up to his flat and saw it as if he’d just come back from holiday, noticing the things out of place with an inward cringe of embarrassment, and taking in the evidence that two people had been here, two, not one, with delight. He cleared away the dishes, thinking, absurdly, that this was Jonathan’s, he’d used this glass, that plate, this fork had touched his mouth, his hands had been on this cup, his body sat on this chair...

Washing up done, he switched on the television and sat down on the other end of the sofa to where he usually sat, curling himself up in the memory of this was where Jonathan had lounged, arm spread along the back of the sofa almost around Gethin’s shoulders, and tried to imagine there was still some latent warmth from his guest there, amongst the cushions.

And even though it felt as if Saturday was forever away, he could smile when he thought about it and at least, for the first time in ages, he had a Saturday to look forward to.


	13. Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Maeve and Gethin come up with an idea for a competition, and Jonathan phones unexpectedly.

Friday morning, Gethin brought the second hand books downstairs to the shop, intending to write out on small cards what they were really about, for display in the window. 

Maeve, arriving to cover Gethin’s break, and curious, picked one up and turned it in her hands.

‘What’s this? ”Under Two Queens”?’ she read aloud. ‘Isn’t this the sort of thing that you’re – we’re fighting against?’ 

Gethin smiled at how Maeve included herself.

‘That’s the point, see? People make assumptions. I thought, a window display, you can’t judge a book by its cover, sort of thing, might make people think twice. Or at least smile.’

‘Oh, yes...’ Maeve nodded. ‘But it’s not going to be much of a display with six books, is it?’

‘These aren’t exactly ten-a-penny, you know,’ he said. ‘Four hours trawling through shelves and boxes of books yesterday, this is what we came up with. True, lots of second hand bookshops around, not enough time to visit them...’

‘Well, why not make it into a contest?’ she said. ‘Tell all your groups, put a sign on the board, bring in your dodgy books, best ones get included in the display, I don’t know, offer a prize, swap an old book for a new one?’

‘All right,’ Gethin nodded, warming to the idea. ‘Award for the group that brings in the weirdest title. Special prize if anyone finds a copy of “Fairies on the Doorstep”, that’s the one got me thinking about it in the first place.’

‘Well, you’re on your own time now, so stop thinking about it and go and get your break.’

Not in the flat ten minutes, his tea brewed, his sandwich made, and the phone rang.

‘It’s Maeve, in the shop. Your friend Peter’s here for you...’

‘I’ll come down.’

He brought his tea and sandwich with him, beckoning Peter through to the back room.

‘Kettle’s there, if you want a brew,’ he said. ‘Sorry to eat my lunch at you...’

‘Well, I was going to suggest the café round the corner...’

‘Mmm. Because toasted cheese sandwiches are much more appealing than the cheese sandwiches you make at home. All right, why not?’

‘Well, for you, that’s very decisive! Better hurry then, before you change your mind!’

*

‘How’s Gordon?’ Gethin asked when they were facing hot bacon baps and builder’s tea.

‘He’s fine. As a matter of fact, I’ve told him he’s spending far too much time in the hospital for such a healthy individual, so he’s skipping his visiting tonight and we’re going to dinner instead.’ Peter took an elegant bite of his lunch. ‘That was your cue to ask how Ivan is, by the way...’

Gethin took a big mouthful of his bacon bap before he answered.

‘Sorry. Suppose I ought to be interested... How is Ivan?’

‘Complaining you haven’t been to see him. Would it hurt? Really? I think he just wants to apologise...’

Gethin sighed.

‘Thing is, I said, that was it, we were done. He got into the fight after I left. So why would I go? How could I? It’d only give him ideas. Besides, I’m seeing someone.’ 

‘Oh, are you, now?’ Peter sat a little straighter, eyes brightly curious. ‘Do tell?’

Gethin grinned, but shook his head.

‘Early days, don’t want to jinx it, you know.’ 

‘Can I guess? I bet I could guess...’

‘I’m sure you could, rather you didn’t...’

‘Gethin, the thing is, you were so sweet about Gordon, and I do like him, that’s the thing, I really do... he’s been Ivan’s only visitor...’

‘Says a lot about Ivan, doesn’t it?’

‘I don’t want Gordon and me to fall out over him, that’s all.’

‘Well, go with Gordon to visit, if you’re worried. Stake your claim in front of him, let Gordon see you don’t mind him being nice, just... not too nice...’ Gethin took a mouthful of strong, dark-orange coloured tea. ‘Ask Gordon who else Ivan is friends with. Or I can probably get you the number of the mother of the lad he was fighting with, I’m sure she’d have something to say to him...’

Peter winced.

‘Ouch! All right, all right, I’ll back off... just making sure you’re sure.’

‘I was always sure, Peter. Besides, new boyfriend, right?’

‘What’s he like, then? Since you won’t tell me who he is, at least tell me what the attraction is...?’

‘Everything,’ Gethin said. 

‘Can you be more specific, do you think?’

‘If I am, you’ll start guessing.’ Gethin drained his mug heroically, finished his food. ‘I need to be getting back, sorry.’

*

‘I drafted out a couple of cards for you, about the competition,’ Maeve said. ‘See what you think.’

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Exciting prizes. Hmm. Have to give that some thought.’

‘Can I enter? Only my mum’s got a book, “Radiation Cookery”, something like that, I think. I know it’s not naughty, but...’

‘But it illustrates the point perfectly. Will she want it back, your mum?’

‘I’ll ask. Didn’t your friend say he collects cook books?’

‘You remembered that?’

‘He’s very memorable.’ 

She gave a little sigh, causing Gethin to smile.

‘He is that. So, I’ll need to sort out a closing date, choose from the titles they find, then have everyone round with their books for a bit of a party. Announce winners. Give them about a month, what do you think?’

‘Sounds great!’

‘I’ll mention it at the meeting tonight, in fact.’

*

So when the First Quarter Support Group arrived for their meeting, he asked the secretary for a few moments first, explained the concept, held up a couple of the books as examples.

‘You need to find a book, register the title with me or my assistant in the shop, then come along to the prize party with it, winners to be announced there, prizes to be announced nearer the day. Winning books will be used in the window display, more details on the notice board. Thank you.’ He nodded to the secretary. ‘See you at locking up time.’

He could have stayed for the meeting, for the company, but he wasn’t under twenty-five, and he didn’t feel the need for support, and the only company he wanted was also not under twenty-five.

Still. He was a whole day closer to Saturday night.

At around quarter to nine, the phone rang in the hall. Not expecting anyone, still, he hoped, and hurried to answer it.

‘Hello?’

And the longed-for voice, anxious, stressed.

‘Gethin, is that you? Gethin, I don’t know what to do...’

‘Jonathan? Jonathan, are you all right?’

It sounded as though he was upset. And as if he’d been drinking.

‘Yes, yes, fine, it’s just... oh, God...’

‘Worrying about you, now. What is it, what’s happened?’

‘I was out. Came back, there’s a note under the door, Luke’s parents, they’re coming back tomorrow...’

‘Okay, breathe, now.’ Well, it was lovely to hear his voice, horrible to hear the panic... ‘What’s the problem?’

‘The problem? The problem is I’ve got all my stuff here, I’ve got about fifteen hours to go from live-in ex-lover, sorry, to flatmate and the place is full of all my... my working gear! Can you imagine how that’s going to go down with Mummy? Can you? God, what am I going to do, Gethin?’

‘How about make yourself a cup of tea and calm down a bit? Or... better idea – pack up your costumes and stuff and get yourself into a taxi and over here; I’ll make you a cup of tea when you get here. How’s that sound?’

‘Would you? Would you really?’

Gethin bit back a sigh. Work tomorrow, was going to be a late night by the sound of things, he’d be shattered...

‘Yes, of course. Got a second bedroom you can leave everything in, not a problem. Just don’t get so worked up about it, we can talk it over when you get here, if you want.’

‘Your place, yes. I’ll get a taxi... shall I ring when I’m on the way?’

‘Good idea,’ Gethin said.

It was what? Six, seven miles, depending which bit of Clapham Jonathan was in. Traffic not as bad this time of night, but Friday night, could take a while to get a car. And then, half an hour, maybe, at least. Plus, Jonathan would have to pack his... work gear, costumes, whatever. Bags and jewellery. So he wouldn’t be here for at least forty minutes.

No point putting the kettle on yet.

And what would he want to do, go back again once he’d dropped everything off?

Stay the night?

Oh, God, stay where? Guest room, sofa?

Or with Gethin?

Rushing it a bit.

Only, why would it be rushing it? Known him for months, off and on, and, anyway, over Christmas, rushed things then, anyway. Well, one-night-stands, it’s what you do.

Better tidy up in the bedroom, make the bed, change the sheets.

By the time he’d done that, and made sure there was space in the wardrobe in the guest room, and made up the folding bed in there, just in case, it was time for him to go and sort out the First Quarter, send them on their way, and while he was doing their washing up, he realised he’d been unconsciously waiting, straining to hear if the phone was about to ring, worried he wouldn’t be able to hear it, so he abandoned the washing up and went back to his flat.

Ten minutes later, when the phone finally did ring, he jumped. 

‘Jonathan?’

‘Taxi is pulling up outside now. Twenty minutes or so, I think. Ciao!’

Ciao?

‘Um... see you soon.’

Twenty minutes later, the kettle was on, the cups waiting, and Gethin staring out of the window into the street, waiting for any sign of Jonathan. Presently, a taxi drew up, and by the time Gethin got downstairs and opened the door, was pulling away, leaving Jonathan and several suitcases and assorted bags on the pavement.

‘Gethin, thank you, you’re a life-saver...’

‘Come on, let’s take you up.’

It was only when he saw Jonathan’s smirk that he realised what he said could be taken two ways. 

‘Get you in. Oh, to the flat, I mean. Settled. Can I carry something for you?’

It took two trips, and Jonathan insisted on carrying his old, battered briefcase.

‘Security blanket,’ he said. ‘My life’s in here, passport, address book, diary, reviews... everything.’

‘I’ll make you that tea,’ Gethin said, pausing on the first floor landing and setting down the bags; he was happy to help, but Jonathan could carry his own cases up the next flight of stairs. ‘You know where the guest room is. Feel free to use the wardrobe if you need to hang the creases out of anything.’

When Jonathan hadn’t appeared after the tea had been made long enough to start to cool, Gethin took it up.

‘Tea’s going cold,’ he said from the doorway.

‘Thanks.’ Jonathan took the mug from him and drank. ‘Mmm, yes. Don’t suppose you’ve got any more hangers, have you? I never thought to bring any.’

Every surface of the room now held clothes. Dresses were hanging in the wardrobe, lying on the folding bed like invisible drunks. Bags and wigs on the chair, on top of the dresses on the bed, shoes lined up on the base of the wardrobe. There were elaborate costumes, obviously for pantomime dames, and extravagant gowns, fit to make Danny La Rue look dowdy. 

But there were others, too, less dressy, more everyday, and Gethin found himself wondering just how much drag work Jonathan actually did...  
Jonathan’s question brought him down to the moment.

‘Hangers. Um... Let me have a look.’

Gethin left his door open as he went to his own wardrobe to rummage for hangers, glad of the moment to focus on something other than Jonathan’s clothes, half-hoping Jonathan would follow and distract him further...

But no.

He found half a dozen hangers, doubling up his own shirts to free up a few more.

‘Here,’ he said, handing them over.

Jonathan’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were serious.

‘Have I freaked you out with all this?’

‘No. Well, maybe a little. And I don’t know why, it doesn’t matter. I mean...’

‘I know what you mean.’ Jonathan picked up a black cross bodice dress with yellow flowers and gave it a shake before easing it onto a hanger and hooking it onto the rail in the wardrobe. ‘I’m a bit much, sometimes.’

‘Sorry, I... it’s not, you’re not..., you’re just...Jonathan...’ Gethin grabbed a hanger, carefully inserted it into the open neck of a teal evening gown, hoping that helping would show what he couldn’t find words for, that it was all right if these weren’t just work clothes. ‘Bet this colour looks great on you.’

Jonathan barked a laugh and took the gown from him. 

‘Yes, one of my favourites. The skirt has a lovely swish when I’m dancing... was thinking of wearing it tomorrow? For our date? God, are we still going to have a date? I never thought, you seemed so okay about things...’

‘Of course we’re having a bloody date,’ Gethin muttered. 

‘Maybe we should have this conversation downstairs. Away from the evidence, as it were.’

‘All right.’

Back in the warmth of the sitting room, more tea, sitting on the sofa, Jonathan’s collection of clothes seemed a world away, and Gethin would have given anything not to have bring the subject up again, but just to pull Jonathan against him and cuddle him in, try that kiss again, now he wasn’t being watched by random group secretaries, now there was time. But he kept thinking of the words Luke had hurled like missiles, so many of his insults focussed on Jonathan’s drag act... Gethin had no wish to wake up that hurt, to bring painful memories to Jonathan’s rich brown eyes.

He was sitting very still, nursing a fresh cup of tea, his face open, smiling slightly, but there was a sort of tension to his stillness, not as if he was relaxed, but as if he was poised in the moment before flight, before being pulled in all directions at once.

‘First time you kissed me,’ Gethin said abruptly, fracturing the silence, hoping to get it right, make it right. ‘First time, on the stairs, you were wearing a dress then. Sorry, I’m being silly, it’s just... I’d react the same if you’d turned up with three suitcases full of donkey jackets, but damn it, that’s not a working wardrobe, that’s a bloody fashion show...’

Jonathan smiled, really smiled, and Gethin took his hand, entwining their fingers.

‘...and so you’re going to be better dressed than me, you’re taller than me, better looking than me...’

‘No, I’m not...’

‘...you can even say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch better than I can. I’m hopelessly outclassed before we start. But it doesn’t matter, as it’s you. And I don’t care what you wear, when you wear it, whatever you feel comfortable in. Honest. It was just... damn, if this is the stuff you don’t want Luke’s mother to see, how many other clothes have you got?’

‘I was thinking,’ Jonathan said, and his eyes softened, began to smile again. ‘Upstairs, how I could explain, these are for panto, I have at least four for the drag act, the others... for my acting roles... but... and yes, there are a few acting roles where I need to cross-dress, not even drag – but... not that many, really. But it wouldn’t have been honest. And whatever else, Gethin, I want to be honest with you about this.’

‘There’s just so much of it,’ Gethin said. ‘So maybe I was a bit taken aback, at first. If it makes you happy, wear a dress. Or a skirt. Or nothing, I don’t care. If you want to go out dancing in that posh blue-green frock, I’ll dance with you. Help you out of it after, as well. All right?’

‘God, you’re amazing,’ Jonathan said.

‘Well, you’re not so bad yourself,’ Gethin told him.


	14. 'Role Assignment'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan decides tea isn't enough...

‘I don’t know about you,’ Jonathan said softly into the silence that had fallen. ‘But a cup of tea, nice though it is, just isn’t quite doing it for me at the moment.’

‘Nor me. There’s some vodka.’ Gethin got to his feet and went to the cupboard in the kitchen where he kept the booze. ‘And one of those bottles of odd stuff you always end up with, sort of purple colour... and half a bottle of sherry... lager, in the fridge.’

‘You’re short of nothing you’ve got, are you?’

Jonathan’s amused voice came from just behind him; Gethin turned to see his guest leaning against the doorframe, smiling that assured, closed-lipped smile.

‘Ah, well, I learned from the best,’ Gethin said back. ‘Aunty Dilys’ cocktail cabinet was a thing of glory and a joy to behold.’

Jonathan laughed, pushing himself away from the door frame to cross the kitchen and lean against the window ledge, closer to Gethin.

‘You okay, Gethin? Really?’ Jonathan shook his head in disbelief as Gethin shrugged, and continued on. ‘Because, if I’d thought coming over with my things would throw you like this...’

‘Don’t be daft. Course, more worried about how much else you’re going to bring tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow...?’ Puzzlement creasing the handsome face, the head tipping curiously.

‘Well, you can hardly go back for the rest of your gear tonight,’ Gethin said. ‘It’s getting late.’

‘Not really.’

‘It is when I have to be at work for half eight, up an hour before. Or would be, by the time you got the rest of it packed, got back here again.’

‘Are you...? No, obviously you’re not throwing me out, you’re suggesting I stay?’

‘Not that you have to, or anything.’

‘I will admit, it seems like a waste of money to get a taxi home, and the tube at this hour... hit and miss, really, and it’s a bit of a walk the other end...’

‘Settled, then. You can go in the morning, time for another trip before the mother gets there... what happened, anyway? Full story?’

Jonathan sighed, looking down as he gathered his thoughts.

‘The night Luke was arrested, his keys were in his coat, in the cupboard they called my dressing room... so I ended up with both sets, good thing, too, or his mummy could have waltzed in while I was out... like I say, a note under the door saying she’d been trying through the afternoon to catch me, Luke’s giving up the flat and she wants his stuff, the lawyer-relative will sort the lease and everything, and I panicked. Okay, I had a drink or two after rehearsals, which probably didn’t help me take the news well, and I just couldn’t think of what else to do or who else would help me... and I already knew you to be kind...’

‘And that I had a spare room.’

‘No, I only thought of that later. Anyway, it’s going to be awkward enough without having to explain my clothing choices, it’s none of Luke’s Mummy’s business but you can just tell she’s going to be all, ‘have you been corrupting my sweet little child...?’ as soon as she gets the chance, and while I might just pull off Flat Mate, Honest, no way would I get away with it if...’

‘...if she clocked the shoes and dresses. No, I see.’

‘And I have the feeling they’re going to want me out in short order no matter what, never mind the two weeks’ rent already paid ...’

‘You’ll be homeless, then?’

‘You know, when you said, bring the rest of my stuff, I wondered if you’d guessed... but we don’t really know each other well enough for you to read my mind, and while I know I am undeniably charismatic...’ he grinned to show he was joking, ‘I know it’s a bit much to ask. Especially when you’ve just been treated to a display of the choicest items in my wardrobe... Anyway, there’s my old room at my mother’s. I can doss down there for a couple of weeks until I get sorted, if...’

He broke off. 

‘You know, that bottle of purple stuff is starting to look really interesting...’

‘Want to try some?’

*

It turned out to be nothing worse than a bottle of home-made wine, a gift from Peter, the colour mostly coming from a strange tint to the glass, and not nearly as unpleasant as it could have been. After two glasses, Gethin was feeling much less uptight about the invasion of his flat by so many garments not his own, and wriggled and pushed himself comfortable on the sofa, dragging Jonathan’s arm down from the backrest across his shoulders, causing his guest to smile.

‘If you weren’t so bloody tall, I’d be cuddling you, of course,’ Gethin said.

‘Of course,’ Jonathan grinned. ‘You know what they say, don’t you?’

‘What, particularly?’

‘Everyone’s the same height lying down.’

‘Do they, do they really say that?’ 

Gethin extricated himself from under Jonathan’s arm; it hadn’t been as comfortable in reality as it had in his imagination, and knelt on the sofa facing his guest to look into his face, waiting for an answer.

Jonathan nodded.

‘They do indeed. It sounds right. Makes sense.’

‘Or it’s just a really clever chat-up line.’ 

Not that Jonathan needed really clever chat up lines; all he had to do was just sit there, with that smile, and those eyes, and even the air around him seemed to sparkle and fizz with anticipation.

Irresistible.

And, unable to resist, Gethin leaned forward and placed a small, swift kiss on Jonathan’s delicious lips, just there-and-not-there, moving in for another, now that Jonathan had been warned, pulling those broad shoulders towards him, not falling down into Jonathan’s arms like some melting starlet but holding him close, an arm around his back, other hand sliding through the messy, gorgeous hair, mouths connecting, Gethin leading the kiss, savouring the sensation of breaching that wonderful mouth with his tongue, reading the response as Jonathan eagerly leaned in to him, aware of the wakefulness of his body, lust rising with desire until everything was the kiss, the connection, the hands and mouths, the sensual exploration until Jonathan slid his hand inside Gethin’s shirt and began to track down towards his waistband.

It was too much; panic flared, dousing the nascent passion, and suddenly Gethin had to extricate himself...

Pretending he hadn’t noticed the questing hand, he ended the kiss with as much delicacy as possible and disengaged, getting up from the sofa to swallow hard, try not to look at the sudden extreme tightness of Jonathan’s jeans, the puzzlement in his eyes and, really, Gethin himself was at a loss to know why he’d pulled away...  
And he could see the question forming in Jonathan’s mind, so he pre-empted it with a grin.

‘And I thought the man said that they said you should always leave them wanting more,’ he said. ‘You know where the bathroom is? Time I turned in, early start tomorrow.’

‘It’s Saturday tomorrow!’

‘Busy days, Saturdays, in the shop. If you need anything, you know where I am. I’ll let you get clear of the bathroom first, then.’

'Oh, it's like that, is it?' Jonathan asked, and even though he was an actor, it was obvious he was trying not to mind.

'It's late, that's all. Goodnight kiss, should I have said first?'

Gethin almost stumbled up the stairs and into his bedroom. He shut the door firmly, then shook his head and turned the handle to leave it ajar. Didn't want to shut Jonathan out, not really, not at all, thinking about it…

So what had that been about, downstairs? He wanted... Oh, how he'd wanted... and he'd been the one to start it, pulling Jonathan’s arm round his shoulders, with the kiss, but Jonathan's exploring hand had been too soon, too real, and, yes he wanted him, but he wanted more than a quick fling, only Jonathan seemed to come with baggage. 

A lot of baggage. 

Quite literally.

He heard slow, tired feet on the stairs and felt guilty, and lonely, and almost ashamed of himself.

But it was late.

Work tomorrow.

He listened for the shoot of the bolt from the bathroom door before undressing and finding pyjama bottoms to put on, getting into bed to wait for the exaggerated sound of the guest room door closing before he ventured out to wash his face and clean his teeth.

'You're an idiot,' he told his reflection. 'Walking away from him like that. You know he's fragile, what have you done to him?'

And what could they have been doing together, but for that moment's panic?

Idiot.

Still cursing himself, he went back into his bedroom, stopped with a start as he saw his bed was no longer empty.

'Jonathan?' he said, embarrassed that his voice rose to a squeak as he ended the word.

'Hope you don't mind,' Jonathan said, snuggling down under the quilt. 'But the bed through there is covered with accessories...'

'What? Of course it is, with your bloody accessories!'

'And I've a six foot frame to fit onto a five foot bed... it’s all right, isn’t it?'

This last was said with a hopeful, inviting lift to the rich voice... at least Jonathan didn't seem to have been too traumatised by Gethin's earlier retreat.

'That's my side of the bed!' he protested, the only thing he could think of.

'Ah, that explains why it was so nice and warm when I got in. Like I said once before, you're just the perfect host!'

'And I can’t sleep unless on my left so you'll have shove up, if you're staying.’

'Oh, well, with a gracious invitation like that, how can I refuse?' Jonathan smiled and moved across the bed about half the required distance, patted the bedding invitingly. 'Come on, get in, you'll freeze out there; your nipples are already spiked up like little diamonds... Or is that not from the cold? You know, to go by the other evidence, it’s not…'

Gethin felt his face flush and he sat down hastily on the edge of the bed, his back to Jonathan.

‘I’m not sure we know each other well enough for you to be talking about my nipples,’ he muttered.

‘Well, get in, snuggle up, and let’s get to know each other a bit better.’ 

Jonathan lifted the covers, enfolded Gethin in them, and pulled him close. A moment’s resistance, and Gethin sighed and allowed himself to stretch out in the bed, lying against the length of Jonathan’s body. 

‘Anyway, how much do I need to know about you before I can talk about your nipples? I know where you live, what you do, I know you’re a wonderful host and will drink practically anything, even in a purple bottle. And,’ Jonathan finished, almost triumphantly, ‘I know your shoe size. 8 ½. Are you’re going to lose those pyjama bottoms any time soon? Can I help?’

‘I can manage, thank you.’

‘Something else I know about you,’ Jonathan said, shifting back a little further to accommodate Gethin, and turning onto his side so he could drape a languid, easy arm across Gethin’s waist. ‘You consider a blowjob to be cheating. And probably anything more than one kiss for comfort and sympathy. Good morals, there.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Although, I did want to clarify…’ Jonathan wriggled himself comfortable, curling around Gethin’s still somewhat-stiff back. ‘Is it the same if you’re offering a blowjob? Because I was. Offering, not asking for, that is. In the bath, that day. After you’d been so lovely to me, so nice. Would that be cheating?’

‘Yes, it would. Even if you didn’t think you were getting much out of it, it still would be.’

So difficult not to relax back, and, really, what would the harm be? Jonathan was a warm, comfortable presence, and his hand drifting just to play with the waist of Gethin’s pyjamas wasn’t intrusive, or over-eager; it was gentle and nice, friendly almost.

‘Of course, it’s a moot point now,’ Jonathan went on, bringing his face closer to Gethin’s neck so that his breath was a soft warmth behind his ear. ‘I’ve finished with Luke, you never were with Ivan… we’re both free agents…’

‘No, you’re not! We’re not, I mean…’ Gethin turned in his arms, rolling over on top of Jonathan in his haste to protest. ‘You and me, we’re going on a bloody date tomorrow night; we’re not free agents, so don’t you be offering blowjobs to anyone else. Anyone, I mean. All right?’

Jonathan inhaled and as he breathed out, hooked his thumbs into the sides of Gethin’s pyjamas.

‘Hope these aren't fuzzy lined. Nothing worse than a mouthful of fluff when you’re expecting something a little more substantial,’ he said as he slid the offending sleepwear down, away… ‘Ah, that’s better, that’s nice… isn’t that nice?’

And, yes, it was nice, to lie naked on Jonathan, naked also, and as hard, also, beneath him, and to allow and accept the slow waltz of his hands, to stop talking and protesting and pretending, to kiss him and kiss him as if he was starved of affection, as if only this man would sate him, to feel the rise and response of Jonathan’s body, to hear the soft, needy noises and to just stop controlling everything for one wonderful, glorious, gorgeous hour… and then not to have to get up and get dressed and call a taxi or get the early bus, nothing furtive, he wouldn’t let there be anything furtive about him and Jonathan, wonderful, fragile, beautiful Jonathan Blake…

‘We’re going to have to sort out our role assignment a bit,’ Jonathan said softly, cuddling Gethin against him, them having discovered that, no, people were not all the same height lying down.

Gethin lifted his head from where he’d nestled against Jonathan’s neck.

‘What d’you mean?’ he said, sleepy, content, replete.

‘Well, in most couples, there’s one that goes to sleep straight away after, thinking, God, that was good, or something… and the other lies awake thinking, he’s lovely did that really just happen, God, he’s gorgeous, how do I stop this from going wrong, will he still fancy me in daylight?... so I think one of us ought be asleep now.’

Gethin smiled.

‘Go to sleep, Jonathan.’

‘Oh, and is that, go to sleep because you’re the one who’s going to stay awake, or, stop being the insomniac, it’s all right, and go to sleep?’

‘It’s all right. Go to sleep. Or do you want me to read you a story?’

‘Oh, that sounds fun.’ Jonathan pulled Gethin closer to him. ‘What do you suggest? “Fun With Dick and Jane”?’

‘Hmm. If you’re not careful, it’s going to be “Single-handed Cruising”, so, goodnight kiss, and goodnight and sweet dreams. I’ll stay awake for both of us.’


	15. The Things You Pick Up At RADA...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which is Gethin woken up by an unusual alarm call...

...strange dream, erotic images, finding his body responding, feeling desire rising... and lips in his hair, fingers dancing over his skin, and the lips moving, neck and throat and lingering, and then on, grazing his mid-line to pause and continue, and...

Oh.

Not a dream. Very definitely not a dream, a hot, busy mouth, a working, magical tongue.

And when he opened his eyes, where the covers had slid aside, there was a head of shaggy honey-gold hair he could bury his fingers into, stroke and caress as the witchcraft tongue continued to weave its spell until, until...

Damn.

‘You’re amazing,’ Gethin said, when he could speak.

‘Nice way to start the morning?’

‘Wonderful. Gorgeous, Duw, Jonathan, bloody amazing...’

_...Where’d you learn to do that? Did you know how wonderful that would be? How?_

The unspoken, wondering questions hung unasked because, how could you ask someone where they learned how to give such pleasure without them actually telling you, and spoiling it all with possibly sordid stories of Others Who Have Gone Before...?

Jonathan chuckled as he bounced up the bed to kiss Gethin’s cheek.

‘RADA, darling. You’d be amazed at some of the tricks you pick up there...’

‘At acting school? And how old were you?’ 

Gethin pushed up onto his elbows and Jonathan smiled, sliding an arm around his shoulders, cuddling.

‘Yes, at drama school. Elocution lessons, proper diction, facial exercises to practice a wide range of expressions... it builds strong and elastic muscles which can, of course, be put to other uses than just on the stage...’

‘I see. Well. Fantastic, you are.’

‘Thank you.’ Jonathan sighed and slid off the bed. ‘And you said you needed to be up at half seven, and it’s now quarter to eight, I’ve got tea brewing, and by the time you’re up and dressed, breakfast will be on the table. On plates, obviously. Shake a leg, darling, I don’t want the blame if you don’t get the shop open on time...’

‘Don’t think I can move just yet.’

‘Oh, too much for you, am I?’ Jonathan winked from the doorway. ‘I’ll be downstairs when you’ve recovered, then. And so will your breakfast.’

And it was only as Jonathan left the room that Gethin registered he’d been wearing an apron.

And nothing else.

And suddenly, somehow, it was a lot easier to get out of bed.

*

Scrambled eggs and hot buttered toast, tea waiting, Jonathan already seated at the table, his bare arms and chest incongruous against the backdrop of the kitchen, and suddenly Gethin felt shy, almost, this beautiful, amazing, almost-naked man sitting at a too-small Formica-topped table and smiling, just for him.

‘Did you sleep well, Jonathan?’ he asked, taking his place and shuffling his chair in.

‘I did, thank you. Well, that bedtime story tired me out. You?’

‘Yes. Not for long enough, though. And someone kept pinching the blankets.’

‘Really? I wonder who that might have been...?’

Jonathan grinned, and Gethin smiled.

‘And you turned off my alarm clock. Thank you for taking its place. And for making breakfast.’

‘You’re welcome. Of course, it won’t be every day.’

Well, no, why would Jonathan think he’d think it would be? It wasn’t as if Jonathan was moving in, he was going to his mother’s, wasn’t he? Or had he forgotten that? Or was it a hint that he wanted the spare room? Well, nobody else was going to use it, were they? Full of dresses and wigs and shoes and hats as it was, suddenly...

Gethin began to eat; it was easier than working his way through what Jonathan meant, or didn’t mean, or wanted him to think, or whether he was terrified at the prospect of Jonathan moving in, or if he wanted it, because it was far too soon to even think about that, but somehow...

‘Oh, God, what did I just say? That probably came out wrong, sounded as I thought you might have expectations, or stuff, and...’ Jonathan broke off with a sigh. ‘My mouth never does what it should early in the day...’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that, I thought your mouth did bloody well, actually.’ Gethin said, flushing at the memory, covering the moment. ‘I’ll find you the other key to the flat. For when you bring the rest of your belongings later, if I’m busy in the shop and can’t help.’

‘Okay, thanks, that’s a help.’ Jonathan’s voice was careful, as if he was glad to back away from his earlier comment. ‘If I swing by the theatre group, I can probably borrow the bus for the day, load up into that. Make two trips that way – one this morning, then I can make a show of packing the last of my stuff in front of Mummy of Luke, so that I have the chance to tell her I’ve nowhere else to go and lay on the guilt a bit...’

‘Because she doesn’t know you have got somewhere else, after all.’

Jonathan dropped the piece of toast he’d been toying with and leaned forward to kiss Gethin on the lips.

‘You’re a real sweetheart, you know that?’ he said, a delighted, delightful smile illuminating his face. ‘Thank you. So much easier than having to commute all the way out to my mother’s... it shouldn’t be for long, the production I’m involved with, they’re good at finding digs for people...’

‘Okay, that’s settled then,’ Gethin said, wondering whether he’d just been railroaded, or if Jonathan really had thought the offer of the key was more than for just the day... ‘Going to make a coffee, I need something with a bit more wellie behind it than tea this morning. You want some?’

*

Breakfast over, Gethin found the spare keys and separated out the ones for the flat.

‘Street level, and front door, there. I need to get to work now, so you take your time, make yourself at home, have a bath, whatever. If you need to, you can ring the shop phone, okay?’

‘Okay.’ 

Jonathan, still seated at the table over another cup of tea, lifted his face, and Gethin realised he was expecting a kiss. Nice, he thought, that it was expected, and kissed him lightly.

‘And you mind how you go on the roads, okay?’

‘I will.’

Downstairs, the pre-opening routine of till and float and lights, making sure all was tidy. Maybe he should consider shifting opening to nine thirty on a Saturday? For the amount of business he did in that first half hour, it might not hurt, could be nice to have an extra half hour in bed.

Especially if that bed had Jonathan Blake in it.

Jonathan departed with a kiss and a wave around quarter past nine and with hopes of being back in time to share Gethin’s lunch break, leaving Gethin to smile his way through the morning, his happy mood not going unnoticed, with more than one customer commenting on his cheerfulness, and even Maeve, breezing in at half eleven for her afternoon shift, grinned delightedly.

‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream!’ she said, which wasn’t quite what had happened, but Gethin decided not to enlighten her. ‘Of course, it’s your big date tonight, isn’t it?’

Good thing the shop wasn’t busy; he didn’t particularly want the customers knowing all about his private life, such as it was.

‘It is, but that’s not why,’ he said quietly.

‘Oh?’

But before he could say any more he found he’d no need, for the door opened with a jangle of the bell and there was Jonathan.

‘Oh, good, your girl’s here,’ he said. ‘Hello, Miss Bookshop. Borrow your boss for a minute?’

‘She’s not my girl, her name’s Maeve,’ Gethin said. ‘And I don’t start my break for another fifteen minutes...’

‘Yes, you do,’ Maeve said. ‘It’s fine, if we get busy, I’ll ring up, or shout, or something.’

So there was nothing for it but to follow Jonathan out of the shop and across to where a brightly-coloured and slightly battered minibus was parked.

‘I can manage most of it,’ Jonathan was saying, flitting across the road. ‘But the dressing table’s a two-man job, really...’

‘Dressing table?’

‘Gorgeous bit of teak, it is. Well, it was once. Great mirror, though. Got it second hand from a little flea shop, don’t want it there when the Mummy shows up...’

As he spoke, Jonathan was busy wrangling a large rectangle of furniture from the minibus. It seemed to have no legs.

‘In the drawer,’ Jonathan said when Gethin mentioned the fact. ‘And the mirror’s wrapped in the blanket, there. Come on, road’s clear now...’

Together they carried the dressing table across the road and up the stairs to the flat.

‘Thanks, Gethin. I think I can manage from here if you want to check on Maeve.’

‘Okay, well... on my break in ten minutes, properly. Can give you a hand then, if you like.’

Maeve was busy with a customer, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have time to give Gethin a big thumbs up.

‘So that’s why you’ve been grinning all morning.’

‘Hardly grinning. Smiling, perhaps, and, yes, he’s why.’ Gethin said once the customer had left. ‘Jonathan.’

‘And he’s bringing his things? Moving in? Gosh, that’s quick. Still, when it’s right, it’s right...’

‘Not quite like that, but... oh, never mind. Just – it’s not for public discussion, okay?’

*

The hall around the foot of the staircase was populated by bags and boxes, and as Gethin picked his way through, Jonathan appeared at the top of the flight.

‘Sorry. Brought it all from the bus first, ferrying it up now, that’s the hard part.’

Gethin picked up the nearest suitcase as he climbed the stairs.

‘Want some lunch?’

‘Would love some, but I need to be on my way again in under an hour. A few last minute things to tidy up at the flat.’

‘You bring your bags, I’ll make sandwiches, then.’

The hour flew. Jonathan’s bags and boxes and cases all found their way up to the landing and the living room.

‘I’ll need to make tracks,’ Jonathan said, downing the last of his tea. ‘See myself out, and see you later. Big date, remember?’

‘Big date.’ Gethin grinned. ‘Looking forward to it.’

Once Jonathan’s steps had receded and the not-quite-slamming of the street-level door echoed up the stairs, Gethin ventured back into his living room, looking around with something akin to wonder.

Bags and boxes everywhere; granted, there seemed to be two full of foodstuffs and another clinked when he lifted it out of the way, but even so, there was so much stuff... not prying, absolutely not prying, but he had to clear a safe path and so ferried a few bags up to leave them outside the guest room, and one of the bags was a little open, revealing perfectly masculine clothing.

If last night Jonathan had brought all the clothes he didn’t want Luke’s mother to see, and today he’d just brought more of his things, then that suggested a much more even balance of gendered garments. Not that it should matter, or did matter, and he hated himself for even having to think that, but he’d be lying if he tried to say it hadn’t given him pause, at least, because it was new to him, and he didn’t want to be anything but honest with Jonathan. Or with himself, for that matter.

The phone rang, and he gathered himself, running back down to answer it.

‘Sorry, Gethin, we’ve got a coachload arrived...’

Because that was the thing about being the only gay bookshop in town; word spread, and clubs and associations from further away had day trips out to see what it was all about.

And, indeed, some coachload of thirty or so had descended on the shop like a horde of literate gay locusts to devour the stock, and he and Maeve kept busy for hours serving, answering questions, giving advice. 

Once they had finally left (in the direction of a gay-friendly café in the area to refresh themselves before the trip back to wherever-it-was) Gethin sighed.

‘I think maybe I should add a line to the advertisement in the magazines, ‘coaches welcome by appointment only’, what do you think?’

‘I think one of us needs to put the kettle on, it’s almost four o’clock,’ Maeve said. ‘And, look three blokes left you their number. And two girls gave me theirs, who would have thought? I did tell them I was spoken for, though. Didn’t tell them I was straight, didn’t have the heart.’

Almost four o’clock. Jonathan should be on his way back by now, or soon...

Except closing time came, and no Jonathan. Gethin locked up, turned the sign to ‘closed’, tallied the till, tidied up roughly, got the books out for restocking the shelves before Monday – thanks to the coach trip, there was a lot of restocking to do – and there was still no sign of him.

Back in his flat, moving more of the bags and cases out of the way so the living room looked less like a left luggage office, he sat down and glanced   
at the clock. Quarter to six, he was shattered, never felt less like getting ready to go out in his life before...

...woke to the sound of knocking at the door, the flat, not the street, and he jumped and had to think for a moment. The clock opposite had moved its hands round to seven fifteen and as he realised he’d fallen asleep in his chair, the knock came again.

Staggering up, bleary-eyed, he made it to the door.

‘Jonathan? Oh, you’re all right, good, I thought something had happened...’

‘No, I’m fine...’ For a moment Jonathan looked puzzled, then tipped his head back in sudden understanding. ‘Oh, I see... you thought I was coming back after I got rid of the Mummy? Sorry, should have said... script meeting with the director...’

‘Um... as long as you’re all right. How did it go?’

He stood back for Jonathan to enter, noticed a little cluster of suitcases around his feet.

‘Great, actually, the lead’s come down with something long-term and nasty, poor sod, so I’m now reading the part of the Flying Ace... it means I’m going to have to pretend to like girls, but I can cope with that short-term, I am an actor...’

‘I meant with Luke’s mother.’

‘Ah.’ Jonathan paused for a moment to rearrange his expression. ‘Yes, needed my acting skills there, all right. Bit of a cow, imagine Luke only a bit more butch... very keen to defend Her Little Boy... anyway, we agreed, I’m officially moving out by Monday, but actually, all my stuff’s gone already. So have you eaten yet? Because I brought the stuff from the fridge, it’ll need eating up...’

And that was it, all Jonathan would volunteer about Luke’s mother. Something about the glint in Jonathan’s eye, the way he’d changed his features made Gethin wary of pushing.

‘You know,’ Jonathan said over food, something amazing he’d cobbled together from apparently random ingredients, ‘we don’t have to go out tonight...’

He left it hanging, and although there was nothing in the words to suggest a preference either way, Gethin had the feeling that to say no, let’s not, let’s stay in, would be a disappointment.

‘You promised me dancing and you in that blue-green outfit,’ he said, shying away a little from the word ‘dress’. ‘So, unless we just defer it, and make another date right now, no, let’s go dancing,’ he said. ‘And drinking.’

‘All right.’ The smile on Jonathan’s face showed Gethin he’d answered correctly. ‘Better start getting ready, then. I don’t suppose...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I know I threw you a bit, last night, with all this. Would you like to help me get ready?’

Oh. Well, it might be interesting.

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

‘Good, glad you said that... I put my dressing table in your room, there’s more space and the lighting’s better I hope you don’t mind...’


	16. Preparations and a Big Night Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Geethin watches Jonathan get ready, and the Big Date happens...

While it didn’t seem Jonathan had done much with his other belongings, the contentious dressing table had been installed under the window in Gethin’s bedroom and populated with jewellery, make up and perfume bottles. Gethin’s chest of drawers had been shoved onto another wall to make space, and a bright boudoir stool with a padded cerise seat set in front of it, looking far too fragile and small for Jonathan’s powerful frame.

‘Right, you sit you down on the bed and watch over my shoulder,’ Jonathan said. ‘Already shaved and washed and cleansed so there’s a good base for the slap to go on...’

He spread a little skin-toned liquid onto a small sponge and began to apply it to his forehead with little circular motions, moving down to his nose and cheeks.

‘I didn’t start out with this sort of cosmetics, naturally, I began with greasepaint – now, that really was slap, of course, the whole point of stage make-up is so it’s easier for the audience to read your expressions... used to be a bugger to take off at first, you get used to it. So this is simple by comparison.’

He paused to reload the sponge and began to apply it to his neck and chin.

‘Even the most experienced women tend to forget to blend,’ he said. ‘Nothing worse than a tidemark.’

‘Won’t it spoil your clothes?’ Gethin asked. ‘Smudge, or something?’

‘The teal dress has a zip up the back, can just step into it. Funny thing, though. The first question Luke asked,’ Jonathan said, still working in the foundation, stretching his face as he did so, ‘when I wanted to wear a dress to go out in, was ‘Why?’ I told him, because I bloody well can! Not sure I should have, in retrospect.’

‘Perhaps it was the way he asked?’ Gethin suggested. ‘Because, there’s being interested enough in a person to want to understand them, and then there’s when someone asks something like it’s a challenge...’

‘Well, I like doing it, and I don’t intend to stop. Just so we’re clear.’

‘And just so we’re both clear, I wouldn’t expect you to stop.’

‘Okay, then.’ Jonathan finished with the foundation, and moved on to eyeshadow. ‘Green, I think, keep it simple.’

He took a small sponge-tipped applicator and dipped it in an emerald green pressed powder which he applied with care to his eyelids.

‘Generally speaking, blue highlights green, and green highlights blue. It goes better with my eye colour, too. So, you’ve got a shop full of books on all topics non-normative-conformative downstairs, worked me out yet?’

Gethin thought about the shelf of titles to do with cross-dressing, transgenderism, transvestism, and shook his head.

‘I thought you’d tell me, if you wanted. Didn’t want to read something and make the wrong assumption...’

‘Well, good for you, Gethin. Too many people just run with the first thought that occurs to them. The main point is, this is different from work; this isn’t drag. Drag to me is performance art, Aunty Phyllis, one or two other characters – I’ve one called Shileen, but she’s a cow, I don’t bring her out in pubs, only on proper stages where it’s further away from the audience so I’ve more chance of ducking the missiles... Drag is three layers of make-up, falsies – both sorts – towering wigs and affectations. This, these things, it’s just fun. I like to wear nice things, and men’s fashion these days, frankly...’

He paused to pick up a tube of eyeliner, twisted it open.

‘Forest green, lovely dark shade. Avoid black, it’s too harsh for almost everyone... need to concentrate a minute here...’

Gethin watched in the mirror as Jonathan stretched his eyelid and swept the tip of a fine brush across, leaving a dark, sultry green line behind. 

The process repeated on the other eye, then with more delicacy on the lower eyelid, just on the rim of the eye over the lashes.

‘Does that hurt if you miss?’ he asked.

‘As in, do I poke myself in the eye? Not so often, not these days. I’m careful what I buy, some of them can sting a bit. And some have been tested on animals, not good. No bunnies were harmed in the making of this face, I promise you... costs more, but I feel better.’ 

He swivelled on the stool, and Gethin saw the difference just eyeshadow and liner had made; Jonathan looked exotic, beautiful, but still very masculine.

‘You know, Gethin, a bit of eyeliner – very dark charcoal for you, I think, with a touch of shadow... or the darkest purple – you’d look stunning, it’d make your eyes really pop, sweetheart... not that I think I want anyone else looking too closely at you, you understand...’

‘Well, not sure about that... but thank you.’

‘Mascara next, and I will go with black for this, takes a moment or two, not quite as tricky as liner...’ 

He turned back to the mirror. A brush pulled from a tube, applied with care, up strokes, down strokes, cross-ways sawing... 

‘The fact is, however you want to dress it up, excuse the phrase, I like women’s clothing, it’s comfortable, easy... something Luke said when we were rowing, you know the day, that I looked like a man in a frock... well, that’s what I am, really, when I do this. I’m not trying to pass for a woman, and I don’t underdress – except when I must, for drag or a performance – but it helps me connect.’ 

He turned back to Gethin, making real eye-contact.

‘Another thing I learned from RADA, you have to open yourself up to your feelings if you want to connect with an audience. You have to know how to show all the emotions clearly and with integrity. And that’s hard, sometimes, bloody hard for a bloke. And, yes, I’m gay, but I’m still a bloke, Gethin, still struggle with all that stuff that women seem to do so easily; love and expressing it, and faithfulness, and compassion... I find that in a dress, some of the barriers come down; it helps me understand the people around me a bit better. I keep hoping it might help them understand me more clearly, too. Does that make any sense?’

Gethin nodded slowly.

‘What I don’t understand, though...’

‘Yes?’

‘All that stuff you put on your eyes... how come they don’t hide you, how come I just see your eyes more? Bloody gorgeous, too...’

Jonathan leaned across from the stool and kissed him.

‘Thank you. That’s one of the sweetest, best-timed compliments ever.’

‘Best-timed?’

‘No lippy yet. Two more minutes, you’d look like you’d been eating straight from the jam pot.’

He turned back to the mirror and dusted a little blusher under his cheekbones, then went for the lipstick. Expecting him to pick a vibrant phone-box red, Gethin was surprised when he went instead for a more muted plum tone.

‘Right, ready for clothes now,’ Jonathan said turning back. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to try a bit of eye-liner?’

‘Maybe another time? Possibly when we’re staying in, not going out, would that be okay?’ Gethin mumbled.

‘That would be lovely. God, I can’t wait, you’ll be amazing to work with... right, where’s that dress, will you help zip me up?’

Jonathan got to his feet and discarded the dressing gown he’d been wearing; beneath he wore only his briefs, and reached for the teal frock, stepping into it and pushing his arms into the short, capped sleeves, settling it against himself.

‘Another thing, unless you have perfect arms, you need a little sleeve... got that zip? Perfect...’

Gethin pulled the zipper up the back of the dress, trying not to yank or tug. There was a little frill of gathered fabric at the top that helped disguise the fastening, and Jonathan’s neck, beneath his hair, was temptingly revealed.

‘You have freckles!’ Gethin leaned in to kiss the exposed skin. ‘I like freckles.’

‘Well, good,’ Jonathan said, turning, ‘because I have a few more you’ve not discovered yet. But you carry on like this, and we’ll never get out. Well, I just need gloves and shoes and a wrap. How long do you need to get ready?’

‘Um... I thought I was...’

Jonathan ran his eyes over Gethin in a way that made him hungry. 

‘Well, the jeans are lovely, but I’m afraid that shirt’s going to clash with me a bit... where are your clothes?’

Ten minutes later, wearing a dark grey shirt instead of the yellow tee he’d started out in, Gethin picked up his leather jacket and locked the door after them.

 

Arriving at the Frog in a Tutu almost an hour later than planned, they found it still not too busy.

‘You been here before?’ Jonathan asked.

‘No, tend to stay near home, really. Or occasionally, the big clubs.’

‘Not a bad place. Well? Buy a bloke a drink?’

Music loud, too loud to talk, and bright lights through the dark, illuminating the dancers in the open area. A DJ whose voice echoed and boomed, unclear, Jonathan leading Gethin through with expert familiarity, greeted by every other man in the place, it seemed.

Not that it was immediately obvious that some of them were men; many wore dresses, or blouses and skirts, and Gethin found himself grinning to himself as they wedged themselves at the bar and ordered drinks.

‘You see?’ Jonathan said, lighting a cigarette and holding it between elegantly-gloved fingers. ‘There’s a lot of it about.’

‘No-one looking better than you, though.’

‘You really think so?’

Gethin nodded. Jonathan had added no padding, and so the shoulders of the dress slipped a little, revealing his chest hair in an asymmetric sweep. But the colour of the ankle-length dress went beautifully with his hair, and that, combined with the cosmetics, simply made him more Jonathan, more gorgeous, than ever.

‘You look amazing,’ he said. ‘See so much of you, like that. It’s like – the clothes, the make-up – it just enhances what’s there, the glory of you. Distilled Jonathan, if you like. Going to have to find a seat, though.’

‘Oh, why?’

‘Sit on my hands, or else I won’t be able to keep them off you.’

Jonathan grinned.

‘Who says you have to? That’s what the dance floor is for. Coming?’

‘In a minute.’ 

Gethin took a steadying gulp of his beer and allowed himself to be tugged onto the dance floor, Jonathan a glorious blue-green kite, himself the tail, possibly the string.

Jonathan didn’t dance like he was in a dress, damn, just danced as if it he believed it was the reason for his existence, hips circling, swinging, every inch of his body expressing the music, creating it, making it his own, and Gethin following as best as he could, laughing when the swirl of skirts brushed his legs, bumping hips, mesmerised by the joyous freedom of Jonathan’s movements, clasping hands for a few bars of rock and roll, taking his chance and ducking in under the windmill arms to grab Jonathan around his waist and attempt a body roll that would have worked better were he taller, but which still did what he wanted – brought Jonathan’s very-fine-even-in-a-dress backside close against his groin for a hot, heady half-minute before Jonathan swung away to pull back in and shout ‘Cheeky!’ into Gethin’s ear, and allow him to steal a swift kiss...

...and then the realisation that everyone else had cleared off the floor and it was just him and Jonathan, strutting, posing, posturing in perfect rhythm until the music ended with a long drawn out note, and Jonathan threw his arms around Gethin and drew him in, there and then, under the lights and the otherwise empty floor to kiss him, to pretend nobody else was there and focus just on him, only on him, as applause and catcalls rose around them, Jonathan’s name shouted and repeated, and the DJ hastily throwing on another record.

Finally, Jonathan allowed the kiss to end.

‘Funny,’ he said. ‘I never thought to ask if you could dance. Glad to know you have a few moves, there. I used to feel so silly, dancing with an amateur. You, now... wonderful!’

He linked hands with Gethin and they returned to the bar where their drinks were waiting, untouched. Gethin downed his pint swiftly, out of breath from the swift exertion of the dance floor, hot from the club.

‘Another?’ Jonathan suggested, and that set the pattern of the evening; a drink, half a drink, a dance or two, more tantalising proximity separated by the public privacy of the dance floor, quick kisses, swift squeezes, hips writhing for a second or two always at the perfect moment, and while Gethin would have liked to stay home tonight with Jonathan and the evening to explore each other, this was probably better, this not-quite-knowing and shared music and movement, this proper, formal date.

Towards the end of the evening, as they returned to the bar, hands hopelessly glued to each other, there were people in the space where they’d been, though, people who moved up to let them get to their drinks.

‘Well, this is a surprise!’ a known voice said. ‘But then again, not entirely!’

Gethin laughed.

‘Peter, Duw, it’s a small world! Don’t know if you know Jonathan...?’

‘Oh, we know who each other is, I think...’

‘Jonathan, this is my friend Peter, and his boyfriend Gordon...’

‘Yes, I know Peter a bit. Not Gordon, so much... Ivan’s friend, is that right?’

Gordon nodded.

‘But I have lots of friends,’ he said. ‘Other than Ivan, that is...’

‘Yes... how is he...?’ Jonathan asked. ‘Last time I saw him he’d just made a slightly unfair comment about my act... still, they do say, everyone’s a critic... You weren’t there for that bit, darling,’ he added, looking fondly at Gethin before turning back to glance from Gordon to Peter. ‘Well? Ivan? Out of hospital, in hospital, in jail, deported...? God, that sounds like the dreariest game of dibsies ever... How’s his hand?’

‘He’s got to have surgery,’ Peter put in, sensing and undercurrent and trying to get everyone to shore safely. ‘Which is why he’s still in hospital.’ 

He focussed his eyes on Gethin. ‘He was asking again if... anyone else... was likely to visit him...?’

‘You should,’ Gordon said, ignoring Jonathan and any claims he might possibly have on Gethin’s time. ‘He did get hurt because of you.’

‘No, you can’t blame me for that,’ Gethin said. ‘Anyway...’

‘No, you should visit,’ Jonathan said smoothly, his face too innocently concerned. ‘Really to hear everyone talk, you were friends... not such friends as we are, obviously...’

‘But... Jonathan...’

‘Or, better idea...’ Jonathan slid his arm around Gethin’s waist and cuddled in. ‘Why don’t we both go? Tomorrow afternoon, what do you say?’

‘Erm...’ Gordon began.

‘If you want, why not?’ Gethin said. ‘I’m sure it’d take his mind off things...’

‘Oh, listen... I love this tune!’ Jonathan tugged at Gethin’s arm. ‘Come on, dance with me? Nice to see you, Peter, Gordon...’

‘I dunno, Jonathan,’ Gethin half-protested as they reached the dance floor. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea? I mean, if you want, we can...’

‘Sweetheart, Gordon has been pimping for Ivan for years now, not that I expect you to know it. Or your friend Peter, who I quite approve of, by the way... no, Ivan isn’t going to stop pestering you unless he sees you’re otherwise involved. And you are, hope you know that. Very otherwise involved.’

‘As long as you’re very otherwise involved too, fine.’

‘Well, good.’

‘One question?’

‘What?’

‘Are we dancing, or what?’

‘Bit of both, I think, it being a slow one.’

And after a little confusion about whose arms went where, they found an arrangement that suited them both, pressed close together and moving gently around the dance floor in a very different change of pace from previous dances. Somehow, in spite of being taller, Jonathan managed to put his face up for a kiss, and, blending in amongst all the other couples making similar exchanges on the floor, Gethin captured Jonathan’s lips and began to forget about music, and Ivan, and anything other than the sensory bliss of holding and being held, being kissed and kissing.

The music faded, the dance slowed, and Gethin found himself looking into those Jonathan-plus eyes. 

‘Home?’

‘Late supper, then home. Don’t know about you, but I didn’t get any tea. I know a lovely little place round the corner. Shall we?’


	17. Screamers and Leeks and Cold, Cold Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin and Jonathan get back to the flat and decide to continue their date...

It was well after midnight when the taxi pulled in and Gethin helped Jonathan out of it, paid the driver, and watched the car slide away into the night.

‘It’s still bloody early!’ Jonathan protested volubly. ‘The night is young!’

‘Yes, it is, but I’m not. Or I don’t feel it. Busy day, all told, and anyway, it’s not like we’re going to separate homes, now, is it?’

‘As long as it isn’t separate beds...’

Jonathan nudged Gethin’s shoulder, completely misjudging his strength, sending him staggering, himself reeling. Gethin caught his own balance, caught Jonathan, and grinned.

‘Oops! Think you might be a little bit tipsy there, Geth, my sweet!’ Jonathan said, draping his arms around Gethin’s neck. ‘I just had... had a smassshing time an’ I don’t want the night to end...’

‘Okay. The night is young, we’ve both danced and drunk enough in public, we’ve both had a lovely time and we should continue our date in private. So. Your place or mine?’

‘Hmm, let me think... Yours, maybe. Because I only just moved in to my place, an’ I don’t know where everything is yet...’

Gethin sought keys, unlocked the door.

‘Come on. Manage the stairs, can you? Or shall I bring a blanket and some cushions and we can just have at it on the floor in the back room?’

‘Stairs are fine, fine...’ Jonathan said, holding the handrail and standing at the bottom of the flight. ‘Good thing too, this escalator’s knackered...’

‘Come on, then.’

Once in the flat, Gethin attempted to release his supporting hold on Jonathan’s waist, but his friend had other ideas, instead turning in his arms to pull close and snuggle in to his neck. His breath was warm and tickly and made Gethin’s head spin and his body respond.

‘Mmm, you smell lovely, Mister Bookshopkeeper. Beer and dancing and kisses... Wonderful... jus’ lovely.’

‘Thank you. Why don’t you sit down...?’ Gethin broke off as Jonathan decided he needed a kiss, and so it was some time before either had breath. ‘No, you can sit down, and I’ll make some coffee, yes?’

Gethin extricated himself gently and went into the kitchen.

‘Yes,’ Jonathan said. ‘Wait... No. Want to help...’

‘Well, you can help best by sitting on the sofa and making sure it doesn’t run away,’ Gethin said, grinning as Jonathan came up behind him, sliding his arms around Gethin’s waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. ‘Or not. Do you want coffee?’

Jonathan snuggled closer, pressing hard against him, echoing Gethin’s need, and he pushed back against the hardness.

‘If I get to choose,’ Jonathan said, low and slow into his ear, ‘... I think I’ll have... you.’

‘Yes?’ Gethin dipped his head, steadying himself against the counter. ‘You know, just because you’re tallest doesn’t mean you have to be Top...’

‘And just because I’m in a frock does not mean I have to play the woman,’ Jonathan articulated clearly. ‘This is self-expresshun... expression, darling. Not role determination.’

‘Yes, I got that, earlier. I’m sure we can work something out...’ Gethin leaned to switch on the kettle, pushing his hips back and causing Jonathan to groan at the increased pressure suddenly against him. ‘Do you want to sit down, get comfortable?’

‘Not going to get comfortable by sitting down... lying down, maybe...’

‘Coffee upstairs, then? I’ll bring it, you go up.’ 

With a sigh Jonathan disengaged and retreated, leaving Gethin suddenly cold and wondering whether he should have been quite so forthright about his preferences, belatedly realising that although Jonathan had been in a happy mood all evening, he might still be on the fragile side...

He lingered for a moment or two, stirring the coffee beyond its needs just to give him an excuse to delay, to try to work out how he could retrieve the situation if so, if he’d spoiled it.

He backed into the bedroom with the mugs in his hands, and so didn’t see what was going on until he’d put down the coffees on the bedside cabinet and turned round. 

Jonathan had undressed and arranged himself on the bed, facing the door and with just a fold of blankets over his midsection. His head was propped on one hand while the other traced abstract circles on the bed and his gaze was thoughtful, and slightly defocussed.

‘You managed your zip, I see,’ Gethin said, sitting on the bed.

‘Yes. And I’m not in a dress now. I thought it might help.’

‘About downstairs...’ Gethin shrugged. ‘I didn’t mean you never could, or I always want to... just... I don’t want to make assumptions about you. Only discoveries, all right?’

Jonathan nodded into his hand.

‘That’s a lovely way of putting it, so to speak. All right.’ Suddenly he sat up, the fold of bedding pooling in his lap. ‘Is it my imagination or are you wearing too many clothes?’

He twisted around, rolling like a huge golden lion cub to rest his head in Gethin’s lap and reach up to fiddle at his buttons, working them open one by one until the shirt was undone, and roaming his fingers over Gethin’s ribs and teasing up his spine before sliding the garment off over his shoulders where it fell to catch around his wrists.

‘Mmm. That’s much more like my imagination,’ Jonathan said and, finding his mouth inches away from Gethin’s stomach, kissed the dark drift of hair around his navel. ‘Well? Are you leaving things like that? Or do I have to undo your cuffs for you as well?’

Not easy to fight free of a shirt when the material was over the cuffs behind your back; it was a bit like getting out of very long handcuffs, and having his belly button gently licked and kissed at the same time was a little distracting, but eventually, and with an increasing sense of frustrating urgency, Gethin managed it. 

Jonathan nuzzled in and wrapped his arms around Gethin’s body.

‘Only thing,’ he murmured against Gethin’s skin. ‘Button on your jeans isn’t half digging in...’

He shifted again, sitting up and kissing Gethin’s mouth, his hands busy now on the fastenings of the jeans, Gethin complicit, hurrying out of the rest of his clothes and trying not to break the kiss, savouring Jonathan’s tongue sliding against his own, the thought that a moment earlier that same tongue had been busy lower on his body adding to the sensation, the excitement, and he shivered in the chill of the flat as he battled out of his shoes without untying the laces, worked out of his socks and took Jonathan in his arms to lie with him and press skin-to-skin, hyper-aware of all the contours and undulations of flesh and bone and muscle, soft and firm and, oh, very, very hard against him...

Thoughts of that morning, of Jonathan waking him so wonderfully returned to him, and he began to move, to wriggle and writhe his way on top, and though Jonathan allowed Gethin to break the kiss only with reluctance, realisation of where Gethin was heading as his lips grazed and lingered their way down his body caused him to lie back, and accept.

Jonathan’s hands in his hair, smoothing through, stroking, adding to the sensation, and his own need a pulsing delight, building, urgent but not desperate, as Gethin turned his attention to Jonathan’s erection, filling his mouth with him, steadying his hands on the strong thighs, taking his time, enjoying the fullness, the small and eager noises from somewhere outside, the hands in his hair, reading the tensing of Jonathan’s body under him, bringing all his skills to bear on his task until the hands clutched at him, the hips under him arced and spasmed, and Jonathan let out a cry that Gethin, even as he swallowed, and swallowed, and gentled his mouth, considered excessively loud in the confines of the bedroom.

Letting go gently, he eased back up the bed to pull Jonathan, still shuddering, against him and cradle his head in his arms.

‘Great, just what I always wanted, a screamer...’ He felt Jonathan draw breath to speak, and went on hastily, in case his golden lover hadn’t realised he was joking. ‘Self-expression, that’s the ticket!’

He pulled blankets over them both, settling into a comfortable cuddle with Jonathan stretching across his body, one of his lovely, long hands reaching to cover Gethin’s groin in delicate exploration.

‘Bloody hell, and you said you thought I was good...’ Jonathan said with a laugh in his voice. ‘So, when were you at RADA, then?’ 

‘Ah, well, I wasn’t, of course. Practiced on leeks.’

‘Leeks?’

Gethin could feel the frown of puzzlement on Jonathan’s forehead, tried to keep the grin out of his voice as he answered.

‘Welshman, what else would I practice on?’

‘Really?’

‘No, not really. You try saying Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch with your mouth full and what do you think it would feel like...?’

Jonathan lifted his shaggy head to look into Gethin’s eyes. The puzzled look was enhanced by a thoughtful silence; from the small movements of Jonathan’s head, the working of his mouth, Gethin was pretty sure he was trying it out in his imagination...

‘No...?’ he said presently.

‘No, sorry, teasing. Just naturally talented, p’raps.’

‘I’ll say. Hmm... we seem to have something going on here...’ Jonathan’s hand stroked slowly and gently over Gethin’s body. ‘D’you know, I’m pretty sure I can think of something better to do than spoil the sheets... just... hold that thought a moment...’

He reached beyond Gethin towards the dressing table, rolling over him as he stretched across to rummage in one of the drawers, took something out, fiddled with it and then took hold of Gethin again; his hand now was slippery, and his long, slow strokes made Gethin gasp as the lubrication was transferred to him, heightening his sensitivity.

‘Steady on...’

Jonathan smiled and rolled lazily onto his front.

‘Jonathan?’

‘Seeing as how you put me first, and it was lovely – even if you don’t practice on leeks – and you said, it isn’t going to be every time... but... it’d be nice, do you think?’

*

And it was wonderful, to lose himself in Jonathan’s body, to hold so close against him and in him, and feel the heat and tightness, to be a part of him, share his gasps and sighs and it wasn’t going to last nearly long enough, he was rushing towards it, and oh.

Oh.

Well.

‘And you called me a screamer?’ Jonathan asked, cuddling. ‘My turn next time. We’ll see then who the real screamer is.’

Gethin smiled against Jonathan’s chest. 

‘Oh, going to be a next time, is there?’

‘Bloody well hope so,’ Jonathan told him. ‘Is that coffee still hot, do you think?’


	18. Ivan the Visited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan follows through on his promise to go with Gethin to visit Ivan

‘What do you do about Sunday Dinner?’ Jonathan asked.

Gethin lifted his head. Breakfast in bed, the coffee hot, this time, preceded and followed by suggestive, snuggly and satisfactory lazing hadn’t prepared him for this sort of question.

‘Dunno. Whatever’s in the fridge. Are you hungry again already?’

‘No...’ Jonathan readjusted his arm under Gethin’s neck. ‘I meant Sunday Dinner, not your midday meal on what just happens to be a Sunday. You know? Roast and all the trimmings? It’s almost eleven, need to get started cooking soon...’

‘Oh, I see. Well, I don’t bother, generally. It’s a lot of fuss, for one.’

‘So I suppose there won’t be anything in... lucky I raided the fridge at the flat, then, I think I can put something together... mind, it probably won’t be much and without knowing what shops are like round here, even if you have any other than for great books and old TVs and risible fashion...’

On the point of asking if a roast dinner really mattered, Gethin stopped himself; it did actually sound important to Jonathan.

‘It’s a lot of work for you,’ Gethin said. ‘We could go out, if you like?’

‘And will we get a proper Sunday Dinner round here? I’m asking, I really don’t know... Besides, I like cooking. Plus, if we’re going to see Ivan the Hospitalized later on, it’s going to take a bit of time to get ready and if we go out and come back to get changed and go out again...’

‘I suppose,’ Gethin said, not quite sure why they wouldn’t be able to go straight to the hospital from wherever they might end up, and not a little surprised that Jonathan had been serious about visiting; and so it was this latter to which he turned his thoughts. ‘You meant it, that we should both go to see Ivan?’

‘Best way I can think of to get the message across.’ 

Jonathan’s hand started rummaging under the blankets, and Gethin began to lose all interest in Ivan. 

Still. 

‘Which message might that be, exactly?’ Gethin asked, distracted by Jonathan’s wonderfully clever fingers.

‘That you’re not interested in him and, I hope, because it’s because you’re interested in me...?’

‘Well, what you’re doing now is... very interesting...’

‘So it should be; warm-up exercises for fluid hand-gestures using individual finger control... and just you wait until I demonstrate putting tight gloves on, one finger at a time...’

*

Eventually leaving the sanctuary of the bedroom, Gethin sat wrapped in his dressing gown at the kitchen table and watched Jonathan put together the basis of a meal.

‘Thank God for Luke’s penchant for a good sausage now and then,’ Jonathan said. ‘Can you peel those spuds for me, Gethin-love? Cheeky little Toad-in-the-Hole coming right up... it’s not a proper roast, I know, but it’ll do the job, and there’s always next week...’

Next week? 

Gethin grinned as he realised that, well, if Jonathan didn’t mind, neither did he. So much for free-spirits-no-ties... still, early days, of course. But if one evening spent together talking could lead so quickly to Jonathan bringing his things over, and a proper, go-out-dancing date lead to having Sunday Dinner cooked for him and a planned trip hospital visiting, who knew where it would end?

If, indeed, it would.

And, for all that Gethin had resisted the conformity of a steady boyfriend in the past, he was already wondering if that was only because he hadn’t met the right person before...

Over the meal, Jonathan raised the topic of the hospital visit again.

‘So, I don’t know much about Ivan,’ Jonathan said, stabbing a piece of sausage with particular vigour. ‘Except that he’s the wrong sort of blond, apparently...’

‘Ah, you remembered that?’

‘I did, been meaning to ask, what’s the right sort of blond...? Never mind, anyway, Ivan... seems to have plenty of friends trying to fix him up with other people, is musical, bit of a drama queen (and I should know), bit sniffy about men in frocks... and doesn’t seem to get the message very quickly... had one like that once, there’s a sort of scale...it can range from ‘endearingly determined’ to ‘rather scarily obsessive’ and, if you ask me, Ivan’s heading towards the ‘Deranged Killer’ end of the spectrum...’

‘Seems to be, yes. Sorry you got dragged into it.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, made me more determined to rescue you. Not that you needed rescuing, obviously. Maybe I was rescuing myself instead. Because of you, if that makes sense? Anyway, where was I?’

‘No idea. You not knowing much about Ivan, I think.’

‘Yes, so, where I’m going with this... how far have we got to go to make sure he gets the message? I mean, we could just start groping each other in front of him, but we might get thrown off the ward... it might be more subtle just to use the B word...?’

‘Subtle? Casting aspersions on his parentage...?’

‘No, the other B word... ‘Boyfriend’? Do you think you’d mind calling me that? Just for the afternoon?’

‘No, I think I can bring myself to do that, Jonathan. Just for the afternoon?’

‘Well... that’s another thing, how many nights out – or nights in – does it take to go from friends to boyfriends? In your opinion?’

Gethin shrugged.

‘Not really sure I have an opinion... I suppose it depends on the person.’

‘And there was me thinking, shop full of books downstairs, you must be the best-informed bloke in London...’

‘I sell them, don’t get much chance to read them. And I haven’t really been looking for a boyfriend.’

‘Ah.’ Jonathan turned his attention back to his plate. ‘Just the afternoon, then.’

‘No, I mean – hadn’t been. Hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t met anyone I wanted for more than just a one-nighter until you. So longer than the afternoon is fine. Really. I like the thought of you being my boyfriend.’

‘Now, you’re just saying that to be nice...’

‘No, I’m not!’ Gethin protested. ‘Really, though, if we say it to Ivan, you can bet he’ll pass it on to Gordon, who will tell Peter, who is a dear and good – and only ever platonic – friend, but he does have a bit of a megaphone-mouth for gossip, bless him – so as long as you know, just the afternoon isn’t going to be just the afternoon by the time the story gets round. I’m fine with boyfriend. Are you fine with boyfriend?’

‘Oh, I’m absolutely fine with boyfriend. Especially as you sound so... so almost fierce that I might not be... of course, there’s always the chance you might change your mind...’

‘Jonathan.’ Gethin shook his head. ‘The only chance I might change my mind would be if I had a fit of the stupids. Who wouldn’t want a hot, right-sort-of-blond like you for their boyfriend?’

Jonathan grinned.

‘You do say the sweetest things, Gethin.’

*

After dinner, Gethin tackled the washing up while Jonathan went to get ready. That was the downside of a proper Sunday Dinner, it looked as if every pan and plate and utensil had been used, every surface covered with bits of peelings or splodges of gravy, or batter, or condiments, but eventually, the kitchen was back to its usual state of nearly-organised chaos.

Well, at least one room in the flat looked as he was used to it looking; there were still bags and cases all over the living room and the landing.

With a sigh, Gethin set to, ferrying them up to the next floor, at least. 

And Jonathan still wasn’t ready.

The guest room door was open, so it looked as if Jonathan was making free in the master bedroom again. Gethin supposed he’d have to accept that; it was where the dressing table was, and therefore where Jonathan would be.

Except...

Why would he need access to the dressing table just to get ready to go hospital visiting?

‘Jonathan?’ he called out. ‘I need to get in and find another shirt – will I disturb you?’

‘Help yourself,’ Jonathan called, and the door opened. ‘I’m just ready. Will I do, do you think?’

Gethin stared as Jonathan presented himself for inspection, momentarily dumbstruck. Finally, realising his silence might be misinterpreted, he hurried to speak.

‘You have made an effort!’

‘Not too much, do you think?’ 

‘No, it’s just... wow. Lovely colour on you, that purple.’

‘It works best with subtle make-up, I must admit, I don’t often do subtle... I’m not sure about the flat heels, though, not with this length skirt...’

‘Well, you’ve got the knees for it... Are you...?’ 

_Really going hospital visiting wearing a purple and blue print above-the-knee dress and eyeshadow?_

No, Gethin couldn’t bring himself to ask; it sounded harsh, and that wasn't what he meant anyway.

‘...going to be warm enough?’ he finished, hoping it sounded as if that had been what he meant to say all along.

‘I’ve got a blue jacket that goes; it’s hanging in the wardrobe... Oh, you brought more of my bags up, that was kind.’

‘No problem. Thought it would help.’ 

Gethin edged past, heading for his wardrobe. His arm brushed Jonathan’s hip, and he found his hand taken, himself pulled into a friendly a cuddle, looking up into those wonderful brown eyes... no mascara today, he noticed absently, just a little purple eyeshadow, and Jonathan placed a swift, light kiss on his lips... no lipstick yet, either...

‘Well, thank you.’ Jonathan gave him a little squeeze. ‘Oh, this is nice. Do we have to go out?’

‘No, of course not. But you’ve gone to such a lot of trouble, it seems a shame. And, if we want to get the next train, we need to leave in ten minutes, all right?’

‘And it was my idea, I suppose. All right. Are you going like that?’

‘No, need a better shirt, that’s all.’

Gethin opened his wardrobe, aware of Jonathan behind him.

‘Oh, that green one looks nice. Far too good to waste on Ivan the Hospitalised... what about the brown one? Haven’t you got anything that won’t make you look fantastically desirable?’

‘You know, I don’t think it matters what I wear.’ Gethin said, grinning at the compliment. ‘He’s not going to be able to take his eyes off you.’

*

And, certainly, when they walked in to Ivan’s room at the hospital, he stared at Jonathan for far longer than he looked at Gethin.

Ivan was wearing a fine ice blue silk dressing gown, a blanket over his knees, and a huge comedy-style bandage on his right hand and wrist.

'Room to yourself, that’s nice,’ Jonathan said in a friendly tone. ‘Is that because you were all fighty in the club and they’re keeping you away from the other patients?’  
‘  
Why are you here?’ Ivan asked, looking not at all pleased to have visitors, but directing his remark mostly to Jonathan.

‘Oh, my boyfriend Gethin said you wanted him to visit, so, of course I came along too.’

‘I did not be fighty with other patients,’ Ivan protested. ‘That is, I am a fine musician; of course, my hands, they are insured, and so I am in private room while I wait for the right treatment.’

Jonathan took a seat on the nearest chair, setting his handbag on his lap and resting his hands primly on top if it, making Gethin smile as he took the other visitor’s chair, the narrow width of the hospital issue a barely-adequate barrier with Ivan on the far side.

‘Peter said you needed an operation on your hand,’ Gethin said. ‘And that you wanted to see me. So, I’m here. And so is Jonathan, since he’s my boyfriend now. Not sure if you two have been formally introduced...’

‘I do not understand this language, sometimes!’ Ivan said. ‘He is not a boy. Nor dressed as one. It is confusing.’

‘The point is, we are a couple,’ Jonathan said, smiling and tilting his head towards Gethin. ‘As in, we are seeing each other, going out together. Lovers. Nothing confusing about that, is there? Or do you need me to draw you a picture?’

Ivan flushed and shook his head, looking away. Jonathan turned to Gethin with a smile, shrugging up his shoulders.

‘I could, you know,’ he said. ‘I’m quite good with a pencil. But better not, perhaps.’

‘So, Ivan, how are you?’ Gethin asked in the little silence that followed. 

‘I have broken some of the small bones, and it is a delicate thing, the hand. So they send for the best surgeon, and tomorrow, it will be done.’

‘Good thing we didn’t bring any grapes,’ Jonathan said. ‘You won’t be able to eat after tonight. But we did bring you something...’

‘Did we?’ Gethin asked in alarm as Jonathan fished inside his voluminous black handbag and took out a small paperback claiming to be a user’s handbook for budding crossdressers... ‘Ah. Yes, I see.’

‘I put the money next to the till,’ Jonathan said. ‘Well, half of it. Help you pass the time, Ivan. Well, they said it was a one-handed book, but I’m not sure they meant it in quite the same way...’

He winked broadly and Gethin fought down the urge to giggle wildly; Ivan was looking more and more uncomfortable and cross with every moment.

A little bustle behind, and familiar voices.

‘Well, hello!’ Peter said, surprised. ‘Gordon, look who’s here!’

‘I can see,’ Gordon said. ‘Although, when you said you’d both visit, I didn’t think you meant it quite like this, Jonathan!’

‘Well, I didn’t want to be overdressed,’ Jonathan said. ‘You know, there is a sign, two visitors only at the bedside; I suppose we’d better be going, Gethin...?’

‘Yes, I’m ready. Good to see you’re not suffering too much, Ivan, hope it goes well tomorrow. See you, Peter. Gordon.’

‘Sooner than you might think, Gethin – we might just pop in for a cup of tea on our way home...’

‘Lovely!’ Jonathan said. ‘With a bit of luck, I might even have time to get a batch of scones in the oven. How does five-thirty sound?’


	19. Fresh Baked Scones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Gordon arrive to discuss the visit with Ivan...

'Should I change, do you think?'

Jonathan had knocked up a batch of scones and sent them into the oven, made a pot of tea, and all without doing more than taking off his jacket and wrapping himself into an apron. Now he looked towards Gethin with doubt in his eyes.

'Up to you,' Gethin said. 'I suppose it depends on if you want Peter and Gordon to think you dressed up just for Ivan, or if this is your normal Sunday gear.'

'No, it depends how I feel at the time,' Jonathan said. 'And today I felt like, this is me, this is me with Gethin, on Sunday, deal with it.'

'Fair enough. Peter and Gordon can deal with it too, then. I was thinking, downstairs in the back room? I've never invited Peter up, you see...'

'Oh, okay. They don't take long, scones. And these are proper scones, not like those plaster-of-Paris ones we had at the book fair. Come and get your tea.'

 

The knock came at the door half an hour or so later; at a guess, it seemed that Peter and Gordon had stayed for all of visiting at the hospital.

'Not that it was an entirely happy time,' Peter said with mild disapproval as he took a seat at the table in the back room. ‘Poor Ivan was quite down…’

'That's the thing with, Ivan,' Gethin said. 'Morose, at times.'

'Well, he'd every reason to be a bit glum today,' Peter said. 'After your little stunt...'

'Excuse me!' Jonathan protested, prowling behind the table to pour tea and pass round scones. 'If it had been a stunt, we'd both have been wearing frocks.'

‘No…!’ Peter protested, the glance he gave Gethin echoing his disbelief. ‘Gethin wouldn’t do drag!’

‘What makes you say that?’ Jonathan asked, a bland smile on his face that Gethin was starting to recognize as Jonathan-being-careful-not-to-show-his-true-feelings.

‘Well, he just wouldn’t…!’ Peter expostulated, blustery. ‘Would you, Gethin?’

It felt as if the question was lying on the table next to the scones and they were all staring at it. Jonathan’s hand rested lightly on Gethin’s shoulder as he pushed a mug of tea towards him.

_Well, Gethin? Would you?_

He could almost feel Jonathan asking it…

‘I might,’ he blurted. ‘I mean, not on stage, not… that’s performance art, beyond my skills. But like Jonathan today, why not?’

Jonathan’s fingers convulsed on his shoulder, and relaxed, and Gethin felt he’d avoided some kind of disaster. It did cross his mind to wonder whether this might be a conversation Jonathan would want to continue at a later date, but for the moment, he hid behind his tea.

Jonathan took the last empty chair and smiled his bland smile again. 

‘What’s this, Gethin?’ he asked, picking up one of Maeve’s flyers. ‘A book title challenge?’

Glad of the chance to change the subject, Gethin nodded. 

‘You can blame yourself for it, really.’ He grinned and nodded at Jonathan. ‘First time he came in here, asked if I had “Fairies on the Doorstep”. Turned out it’s an actual book, and the idea came from there. Found a few more titles at a book sale, decided it’d make a good display for the shop; you know, not judging a book by its cover, that sort of thing…’

‘Seems doubly appropriate at the moment,’ Jonathan said with a smile.

‘Anyway, we don’t really have enough for a proper display, so Maeve said, run a competition. Any contributions gladly received.’

The contest, the books already found, the idea of a social evening to announce winners filled in a good few minutes while the tea was drunk, the scones cooled enough to be buttered and jammed and eaten, and the mood settled a little. Still, Gethin had the feeling Peter hadn’t finished on the topic of Ivan and so wasn’t surprised when he turned the conversation back to less entertaining matters than “Invisible Dick” and “Shag the Caribou”…

‘Well, this is all very nice, but really, you know… about Ivan,’ Peter began, looking into his empty mug. ‘He really wanted to talk to you.’

‘But I didn’t really want to talk to him. I went, though, didn’t I? And you knew we were going and you turned up, too. What was that about?’

Peter sighed and tilted his head on one side.

‘To be honest…’

‘It was my idea,’ Gordon said. ‘I’ve known Ivan a long time and, well…’

‘You know, it’s funny, that,’ Jonathan put in, his voice amicable. ‘There are quite a few people I know who’ve known Ivan a long time. Yet none of them have gone out with him, and all of them are really keen to pass him on to other blokes. Is it because he can’t choose his own friends, or because he’s out of town so often? Or is it something else?’

Gordon flushed and Peter looked down at his plate.

Jonathan nodded. ‘Thought so. He’s the sort of bloke you meet and think, oh he’s interesting, he might be fun, and then you find out… maybe not quite your type… but he manages to make you feel bad for not being interested, and you find some other poor bugger to try and palm him off on.’

‘Not me,’ Gethin said. ‘It was never going to be me, regardless. Peter, I’ve told you, I’ve told him… well, we both told him, Jonathan and me. And I’m glad you came over today, because I was almost feeling a bit guilty about it.’ He shook his head. ‘Not now, though.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, Gethin, and I don’t want to fall out with you about Ivan,’ Peter said. ‘We’re just passing on a message…’

‘When you say, ‘we’…?’

‘Me,’ Gordon said, ‘you can blame me, it’s okay, Pete, that’s how it is, you tried, no blame… Ivan wants to talk to you one last time, Gethin. He thinks he’s going to be deported…’

‘Oh, good grief…!’ Jonathan muttered.

‘…and he’s hoping you can say something to help his case. That’s all. That’s really all.’

‘Not particularly bothered, to be honest with you,’ Gethin said with a hunch of a shoulder. ‘Probably easier for us if he isn’t in the country…’

He sighed as Jonathan smiled across at him, a kind, encouraging smile.

‘I should go, I suppose. But not alone.’

‘We’ll go with you,’ Gordon said.

‘No, because you’re biased. Jonathan?’

‘You could say I’d be biased, too, Geth-love. But I’ll go with you and wait outside.’

‘We’ll all end up going at this rate!’ Peter said. ‘And the three of us waiting in the corridor, peering through the door to make sure nothing goes wrong… no, it’s too silly. I’m sure we can trust Gethin to sort something out.’

‘I will, I will. But with the shop… it’s not going to be easy.’

‘Get your girl to mind the place,’ Peter suggested.

‘No,’ Jonathan said. ‘Ask her to go with you. She’s straight, and about as impartial as you’re going to get. Pay her train fare, treat it as overtime… she might do it.’

‘All right, I’ll ask. But I don’t know when it’ll be, there’s meetings this week that I have to be here for.’

‘Tomorrow wouldn’t be a good idea anyway, that’s when he’s having his operation,’ Gordon said. ‘The anesthetic, and everything. So that’s all right. Have you got Peter’s number? You could ring and let us know when you’re going.’

‘I have, and I could,’ Gethin said. ‘But I won’t; instead, I’ll let you know when I’ve been. All right?’

Gordon looked about to grumble, but Jonathan got to his feet and lifted the tea pot.

‘More tea anyone?’ he asked, interrupting neatly. ‘Yes? No? Well, I think I’ll make a fresh pot anyway.’

‘I think that’s a signal for us to go,’ Peter said, getting to his feet.

‘Or to stay and have more tea?’ Jonathan said, waving the tea pot.

‘No, no, we’ll get out of your hair…’ Peter sighed and forced a smile. ‘The scones were lovely, though… Gethin, do let us know how you get on.’


	20. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan makes a suggestion and Gethin has an idea...

Gethin carried the rest of the tea things back upstairs, packed the remaining scones into a plastic box with a tight-fitting lid and put the mugs to wash. Jonathan was nowhere about, the promised tea not made or prepared for. 

‘Did you want some tea, or not?’ he called up the stairs.

‘Not, thank you. You coming up?’

‘All right.’

 

Jonathan was seated at his dressing table, reapplying the pale pink lipstick he’d decided was appropriate for Sunday hospital visiting, and Gethin watched as the reflection stretched Jonathan’s mouth to get the perfect line, pressed his lips together and pouted to finish the act.

‘Just a bit of a touch-up. All done. You know, I was thinking, not a lot of room with the dressing table here...’

Gethin smiled and sat down on the bed next to Jonathan on his inadequate boudoir stool.

‘You noticed, did you?’

‘Yes, I was wondering, could we move the bed over, do you think? Just a bit? I love this dressing table, it goes everywhere with me... you know how I said my briefcase has my life in it? Well, this little bundle of teak, I think it has my soul inside.’

‘We can move things round a bit, shove that chair across, move the bed nearer the other wall. It won’t look as balanced, but...’

‘Oh, you don’t want too much symmetry, not in a bedroom, ‘Jonathan said. ‘You need flow, and interesting arrangements of objects so the energy can slow down and pool around a bit, nice and calm... come on, then, is there anything we need to move out of the way first? What about that chest of drawers, put that here, move the dressing table down a bit so you can get to the window, then move the chair up and bring that little table over to the bedside, what do you think, Gethin?’

Well, certainly not that he’d be rearranging his bedroom on a Sunday afternoon with a beautifully made-up man in a dress acting as Mr Shifter, that was for sure... Still, it wouldn’t hurt after all, and if it made Jonathan feel more at home...

‘Come on, then. Let’s get started.’

By the time they were done, it was getting dark outside, and Jonathan shut the curtains and switched on the lights.

‘Gethin... seeing as I’ve got you here...?’

‘Yes?’ Gethin felt breathless, suddenly, Jonathan’s eyes on him, appraising, measuring... ‘Yes, Jonathan?’

‘How would you feel about a little make-over? Just a bit? See what you think?’

Then Jonathan was behind him, at his shoulder, easing him down onto the boudoir stool in front of the dressing table, looking with him into the broad mirror, his arm around him enfolding, gentle, the warmth of him seeping through Gethin’s shirt. 

He swallowed. Last night, he’d as good as agreed to this, only saying maybe not to go out to start with, maybe at home. But what was the harm? 

‘Can I?’ Jonathan asked softly. ‘Can I show you how it feels? It washes off really easily if you don’t like it, I...’

‘Yes, all right.’

‘Really?’

Gethin’s reflection nodded and he realised he must have done, too. But Jonathan looked as if he’d never been happier; he bounced up from Gethin’s side and fell on the drawers of his dressing table, selecting boxes and tubes and cases as if he’d had this all worked out in his head and had only been waiting for a chance...

‘Bloody whirlwind, you,’ Gethin muttered. ‘No, a kite, that’s it, all over the place!’

Jonathan laughed, delighted.

‘Well, I’ve been called a few things in my time...!’

‘Maeve said it first, about how you wandered round the shop one day. But I think she’s right. You’re just everywhere, all at once. Like a mad kite with an elastic string on a blustery day.’

‘Ha...! I think I know what you mean. Right, let’s have a look...’

‘Foundation first, is it? Did I remember right?’

‘Yes, but, Geth-love, you don’t need foundation... in fact...’ Jonathan dashed into the guest room, returning with one of his multihued scarves, which he draped across the reflective surface. ‘You don’t need to look in the mirror either, get comfy in a proper chair, just sit back and I’ll do all the work...’

So Gethin closed his eyes and tried to relax as various brushes and applicators were patted and smoothed and dabbed and drifted across his face, Jonathan keeping up a running commentary all the while, his breathing a soft counterpoint to his voice, his breath a drift of intermittent warmth... and really, there was something about it, knowing Jonathan was completely and utterly intent on him, just him, looking and looking at him and applying his paints and powders with deliberate, careful focus...

‘...gorgeous eyebrows, so dramatic... now, I’m just going to stretch the corner of your eyelid out, hold still... yes, that’s fine... you know, I can see you’re really gripping the arms of the chair here, just relax, not going to hurt you... right, okay, tricky bit now, the mascara... are you up for a bit of mascara?’

‘Yes, okay.’

‘Right, so I’m just going to hold the brush steady, you look beyond it, look at me...keep looking... lovely... and blink for me? Perfect, couple more times... that’s it... God, your lashes... other eye now... beautiful... Lip gloss coming up, and then you’re done...’

‘Wait.’ Gethin lifted a hand.

‘Okay, don’t panic... It’s just a bit of lip gloss, Gethin, slightly tinted, nothing extreme, I promise,’ Jonathan said quickly. ‘Really, I’ve been very restrained... if you don’t want it, that’s fine. It can wipe off straight away, I’d just like to see...’

‘No, just you said... kiss before the lipstick goes on...’

‘Ah. Well, that’s all right, then. A kiss before the lip gloss goes on...’

Gethin felt Jonathan’s hands cradling his head gently as he lifted his face for the kiss. It was lingering, but somehow too brief.

‘God, you’re gorgeous,’ Jonathan said softly into his mouth. ‘Not that you weren’t already... that is, you are, always, you’re...’

‘Jonathan? Shut up and find the lip gloss.’

‘Okay. Shutting up, finding lip gloss... just open your mouth a little, oh God, you are just... no, don’t smile yet... hold still... there. Done.’ He took Gethin’s hands and pulled him to his feet. ‘I thought about what you said, about my make-up making me look just like more me... and that’s what I’ve tried to do for you, Gethin. Nothing over-the-top, nothing outrageous... and it takes a bloody lot of work to be subtle... Come and look.’

Jonathan led him to the little stool and sat him down at it, then pulled the scarf off the mirror with a flourish.

Gethin stared in silence, aware that Jonathan was fidgeting, aware that he needed to say something, anything. But he couldn’t, somehow, find the words. He was transformed, but, as Jonathan had said, he was still the same. He was just... Gethin on a very good day, Gethin when everything had gone to plan, when work wasn’t stressing him, and he’d slept enough, and he was at peace with the world. He looked like he felt inside, when Jonathan was in his arms.

‘Well?’ Jonathan asked, unable to bear the silence any more.

‘You’re amazing, Jonathan.’

‘Never mind me, God, am I really saying that? What about you?’

‘It’s probably different for you, being an actor... I don’t usually look at myself much in the mirror... so... well, surprised, yes. See what you mean about eyeliner, though. Eyeshadow works... can hardly see it, though, how mad is that? Eyelashes... not sure, mascara felt odd going on...’

‘You get used to it.’

‘You’ve made me look so different, but... not... only thing,’ he added, as Jonathan began to grin and preen. ‘The lip gloss, though, it doesn’t seem appropriate...’ And even before he’d said it, even though he had a pretty good idea of what would follow, although he knew he could stop, he added, ‘not dressed like this, at least.’

...Duw, what had he just suggested...?

‘Gethin...?’ Jonathan sat on the bed behind him, slid a hand round his back to rest on his hip. ‘Downstairs... I thought that was just you showing your support for me. Which was wonderfully sweet of you... are you saying you meant it?’

‘I said, I might,’ Gethin whispered. ‘And I don’t know, if I don’t... it’s fine for you to, you know that, I just don’t know about me, so if you want, I don’t mind seeing, but I don’t want to upset you, if...’

‘It’s okay. This was about the make-up, really... you’re okay with that?’

‘Yes. Seems like a lot of work, but I think so.’ Gethin tilted his head. ‘It’s... yeah. Not every day, but sometimes. I... like that you did it for me, that you wanted to.’

‘And I love that you let me. So, if you’re feeling brave, I have a lovely little wraparound, infinitely adjustable, gorgeous sort of dark blue...?’

To his astonishment, Gethin saw his reflection give an almost-imperceptible nod.

‘All right.’

Jonathan grinned and hugged him, kissing his cheek.

‘You are just full of surprises, Gethin Roberts! Come on, then!’

His hands were grasped and he was pulled to his feet, found himself following Jonathan into the guest room where he sat on the edge of the folding bed and wondered what he’d let himself in for. It would be all right, it was just a bit of fabric. After all, he wore a dressing gown that wrapped around, that wasn’t so much different from a wraparound dress, was it? And Jonathan was really throwing himself into the task, as if he needed it to work... perhaps, just reassurance after Luke’s unkindness, Ivan’s contempt. 

Or was it something else, was Jonathan looking for a kindred spirit? Did it... did it mean he already mattered to Jonathan, that this mattered, too?

He began to undress ready, shoes and socks, shirt and jeans, so that when Jonathan found the item he was looking for, and turned with it held against his body and a hopeful enquiry in his eyes, he grinned.

‘Wow. You don’t need clothes, you know. You don’t need anything. Here, it’s just like a great big, long shirt, only it ties, no buttons to worry about, so put your arms in here... that’s it...’

Just like a long shirt, that’s all. No problem. And really, why should there be?

Only that it seemed to matter so much to Jonathan.

And Jonathan, somehow, mattered so much to Gethin that this had to be right.

Jonathan kited around, smoothing the collar, raising Gethin’s arms so he could sort out the sleeves – long sleeves, all the way to the wrist – fold over the fabric and tie it, make adjustments and adaptations at the back... 

‘There.’

He stood back, finally, Gethin hot under his gaze and it was okay, really, it was fine. He took a few steps – just walking, in a dress, no different from walking wrapped in a dressing gown, or a towel after a bath, except the fabric brushing against his thighs was softer, more flowing, and he was very, very aware of it, and there was nothing digging into his waist, no belt from jeans, no uncomfortable seams anywhere. 

It was all right. 

Jonathan was looking at him with a mixture of pride and wonder.

‘Well?’ Gethin asked. ‘Will I do, do you think?’

‘Oh, I think you will do very well indeed, Gethin Roberts... Wow. That’s... well, it’s a bit big on you, of course, we’re differently framed, but the colour is stunning... you’re just... I’m gobsmacked, Geth, that you’d let me do this, make you up and everything, and even if it’s only now and again...’ Jonathan shook his head. ‘Anyway, the important thing is how you feel. Is it okay?’

‘I think so. Feels fine, bit loose, like you say, you’re bigger than me. Yes. Not what I thought, but...’

‘You’ll want to see, of course. Close your eyes,’ he said, and Gethin nodded, allowing Jonathan to steer him by the shoulders. ‘Now, I’m standing you in front of the wardrobe, just hold on while I open the door and get the mirror right... let’s move you back a little to get the full impact... that’s it. Okay, when you’re ready... look at yourself.’

Gethin looked, but he didn’t see himself standing there, reflected. 

Instead...

No. Oh, Duw, no...

His chest felt tight, too tight to breathe, and this great sense of sweeping dread swamped him. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare, and not breathe, and...

Jonathan’s hands left his shoulders, he was going to fall, and he didn’t know where he’d end up if he did, and...

The wardrobe door closed with a snap, taking the nightmare reflection with it, and Jonathan was supporting him, untying the dress, holding Gethin up while he shook and trembled and finally started to breathe again, great, gasping breaths that sounded like sobs as he buried his face in Jonathan’s neck, the dress falling to the ground, strong arms around him, soft, soothing words not penetrating, just the sound a comfort as he was led into the bedroom and helped into bed, Jonathan warm against his back just a moment or two later as he shook and shuddered and tried not to cry and wondered what the fuck had just happened...

And, worse, would Jonathan hate him for it?

‘You know, that wasn’t such a good colour on you after all,’ Jonathan said softly, cuddling up. ‘It was cold in there, wasn’t it? You need to warm up a bit, is that better? Gethin-love?’

‘Um... cold, yes...’ Gethin accepted the idea gratefully. ‘God, Jonathan, I’m sorry, I’m such an idiot, I...’

‘Shush. Don’t worry about it. You tried. It’s not your thing, that’s okay, it wouldn’t be right if we all liked the same things, would it? I didn’t want to upset you, though, you should have said, I was just... bull in a china shop, wasn’t I? My fault, Geth-love.’

‘No, it... sorry, so sorry...’

‘Never mind. Do you want to take that make-up off, then?’

Gethin shook his head into the pillow.

‘No, I like the make-up.’ 

His voice was a whisper, and Jonathan began to softly stroke his hair. The silence stretched out, too heavy, too long, and finally, soothed by the touch of gentle hands, Gethin stopped shaking, his breath came more freely and he sighed.

‘Jonathan, I’m sorry,’ he said, glad to hear he sounded stronger, normal, or nearly. ‘I was fine until I saw... I don’t know what happened, I felt as if I’d been punched... Just... keep me away from mirrors if I’m in a dress, I’ll be fine...’

‘You are a sweetheart, aren’t you?’ Jonathan said. ‘After that... what, panic attack? And you can still joke about it.’

‘Panic attack, yes, I suppose... I dunno, just shock, maybe... can we forget about it? Can we go back to, I might, one day, and it’s fine for you, I love you in a dress, out of a dress is good, anything works...? Can we?’

‘Of course we can,’ Jonathan said. ‘Do you feel better? Can I kiss you? Or would you rather kiss me?’

‘As long as kissing happens, I don’t care.’


	21. Double-time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin apologises again, and Maeve shows hidden depths...

Quite a lot of kissing happened, in fact, but not before Jonathan had slowly smoothed his thumb across Gethin’s mouth to take off the excess of lip gloss. His eyes were kind as he did it, everything about him reassuring, affectionate, so that if seeing Gethin freak out at the sight of his own reflection in a dress had disappointed him, there was no telling from his behaviour.

He was an actor, of course, Gethin reminded himself, trained at displaying emotions he might not be feeling...

Then Jonathan reached for him, pulled him on top of his broad, warm chest and distracted him with kisses and clever, tender hands.

Later, when it was too early to go to bed but not early enough to do much else, Gethin felt the bed dip and lift as Jonathan left its sanctuary. He was hazily aware of noises from outside the bedroom; feet on stairs, taps running, glass chinking, and a few minutes later Jonathan returned with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses.

‘Nice crisp little white, I thought, Radox bath, I’ll take the tap end, couple of glasses, you and me, relaxing together, how does that sound?’

‘It sounds like you’re fussing over me a bit. I’m fine. But... it sounds nice, thank you. I’ll do the tap end.’

‘No, I quite like the spine massage you get from the overflow... besides, I happen to have an inflatable bath pillow my nieces gave me for my birthday one year.’

‘Of course you have! All right, then.’

It was indeed nice. Not relaxing, though – not at first, trying to sort out whose feet should go where, and mind what you’re doing with the bath rack – but eventually they were sorted out, legs tessellated together, using each other’s shins and knees as arm rests in between sips of wine, and the chaos, the silliness of it had made Gethin giggle, and Jonathan grin, and, yes, finally, relaxing.

‘Sorry about earlier,’ Gethin said after his second glass of white. ‘Not given to crying, usually, or anything like that...’

‘In fact, you didn’t cry,’ Jonathan said. ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with blokes crying, for God’s sake, it’s the 1980s not the 1950s after all... No, but I happen to know that particular mascara, my lovely, it isn’t waterproof. I thought if you didn’t like it, it’d be easier to take it off – in fact, it’s just started tracking down your face now from the steam in here... bet mine is, too...’

‘Well, a bit.’

‘A bit. I put loads on me, I bet I look like an untidy chimney sweep, or a tipsy panda...’

Gethin grinned as Jonathan reached across and unwound a section of toilet roll to begin wiping off his make-up with.

‘Want some? Or are you saving yourself for the cotton wool balls?’

‘I think I’ll pass, thanks.’

But Jonathan bundled up a fresh wodge of tissue and leaned forward to do the job himself, patting gently at Gethin’s face until the make-up was gone, only then turning his attention back to the remnants of cosmetics currently making a run for it down his cheeks.

‘Can we do it again?’ Gethin asked. ‘Make-up, I mean? Will you show me?’

‘I’d love to. Not tonight though, eh? Let your skin have a bit of a rest first. It’s heady stuff, if you’re not used to it.’

‘Sounds a bit like you.’

‘Hmm... I hope that’s a compliment?’

After the water had cooled too much for them to linger, they disentangled their legs and bundled up in pyjamas and dressing gowns to cuddle on the sofa, open another bottle of white, and finish off the scones.

‘Well, way past my bedtime,’ Gethin said at last. ‘Half seven alarm for me, I’ll try not to wake you.’

‘I might even be up first. Who knows?’

*

Monday was busier than usual in the shop, mainly because nearly all Gethin’s Sunday jobs had been left incomplete. So while he was able to catch up a little in the first quiet half hour, it meant the restocking and shelving had to be done sporadically in the quiet moments. 

Nor was Jonathan there to help, not that Gethin would have asked; it would have felt like an imposition, but shortly after Gethin had run down to open the shop, Jonathan had appeared from the door to the back room, his Frank Spencer coat over his arm, a bag on his shoulder and his beret jammed on his head.

‘Promised the mother I’d drop in and help with her spring cleaning,’ he said. ‘She’s a bit long in the tooth for this sort of thing, if you ask me, but she likes the ritual of it. Says it makes her feel alive, knowing she’s seen another spring clean. Daft old bird, but I do love her... um.’

‘That’s sweet of you...’ um’ what, Jonathan?’

‘Tiny bit of a commute. Don’t think I can make it back for your dinner break, sorry...’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got stock lists to catch up with if I’m bored.’

‘No, lunch time is for lunch. Eat, don’t work. And I’ve an early evening read-through of the first few scenes of ‘Fly Boy’, I should be home by about seven to half past, though. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ Gethin tried not to grin. Home, Jonathan had said, home, which took the sting out of him being gone all day. ‘Got a group meeting at half past, so I’ll need to dash down and settle them in; if I’m not around, that’s why.’

‘Lovely. Don’t work too hard, will you?’ Jonathan said, pulling Gethin towards him for a swift kiss on the cheek. ‘See you later, Gethin-love.’

The kiss and the endearment carried him through the morning until Maeve arrived. She grinned at his obvious good mood.

‘Good weekend?’ she asked. ‘Well, half-weekend, I suppose.’

‘Pretty good, thank you.’ And it had been, generally speaking. Apart from the odd hour, here and there. ‘You?’

‘So-so. Could have been worse. Anything special you want me to do today, other than push the competition?’

‘Don’t think so. Bit behind today, catching up. Went hospital visiting with Jonathan yesterday...’

‘Oh, your friend Ivan? How is he? Still feeling sorry for himself?’

‘Yes, possibly with some reason. Has to have an operation on his hand today... I was going to ask a favour?’

‘That sounds alarming! What favour?’

‘I need to go back and see him again, but I don’t want to go on my own... ‘

‘Er...’

‘I’d pay your train fare, time-and-a-half from the moment you leave your house to the moment you get home again, just a half-hour visit one evening this week?’

‘I suppose... it would depend what day, I have evening classes on Wednesdays...’

‘Let me check the calendar... there’s a meeting Wednesday, so no problem, another Thursday... um... tomorrow night, could you do tomorrow?’

‘Possibly... does Jonathan know?’

‘Actually, it was his idea.’

‘Well... okay... Double-time, you said?’

‘Time-and-a... okay. Double-time. Visiting starts at seven, so there’s a bit of leeway. We can sort out details tomorrow.’

‘If you’re sure Jonathan won’t mind.’

*

Jonathan, when he heard the news that evening, was delighted.

‘Wonderful!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s a treasure. You know, you should give her more hours, and yourself fewer. You never seem to stop!’

‘Suppose. But at first it kept the wage bill down, and then I’d lots of time to fill... besides, an immersive experience, good way to learn the ropes...’

‘Good way to work yourself to an early grave, if you ask me! I mean, if you were to tally up all the hours you actually work, with these meetings...’

A muted bubble of voices rising from the back room downstairs perfectly illustrated Jonathan’s point.

‘...there, you see?’

‘That’s just it, I couldn’t afford to pay someone else to do it...’

‘But you don’t even have a weekend – you have a day off, which, left to yourself, you’d spend doing what? Paperwork?’

‘Well, never mind, I’ve got an hour before I need to go and check on them.’

‘Oh, a whole hour... I wonder what we can do to pass the time...?’

*

Tuesday evening, and Gethin was already regretting this. Jonathan had left early again to help his mother (‘It’s probably going to be all week, Geth-love, it seems to take longer every year...’) and rehearsals again, meaning that Gethin had left the flat before Jonathan had got back; it seemed a long day without him, and the thought of wasting the evening on Ivan seemed wrong.

Still, get this over and done with, and move on.

Maeve was waiting outside the tube station for him. She seemed to have made an effort, wearing a smart skirt and jacket rather than the jeans she favoured for work, and smiled when he complimented her.

‘Well, I thought it’d make a change. You know, I don’t have the first clue about this chap... what do I need to know?’

So Gethin filled the wait for the train, and the journey itself, with what he knew about Ivan that might be important. He started out trying very hard to be objective, but by the time they were toiling up the non-functioning escalator towards the exit, he realised he’d descended into a barely controlled rant.

‘...always, filling up my glass, wanting to pay, like I was some sort of cute fluffy bunnykins and I was going to end up his plaything, whatever I did. And it was always, oh, you don’t know your own heart, Gethin, you are such a coy one... and if I kept on insisting, protesting, it was, your language is so hard...’

Maeve giggled and patted his arm.

‘And yet you’re still visiting him? Oh, that’s so nice of you!’

‘Stupid, more like. But with this deportation-thing... though how likely it is, I don’t know, or what I could do about it anyway...’

‘Well, don’t you worry about any language difficulty tonight. I know how to say ‘get lost, creep!’ in about fifteen different languages.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. I used to work in the bar at the International Centre at tech college, it’s amazing how quickly you pick up enough to get by.’

*

Ivan was in the chair on the far side of the bed, looking remotely, distantly handsome and slightly aggrieved. His injured hand was covered with a far smaller dressing than previously, and a selection of get well cards were lined with pedantic precision on top of his bedside locker.

On seeing Gethin, he put on a brave-through-pain smile and lifted his uninjured hand in greeting.

‘Gethin, you came!’ he said in long-suffering tones and a trembling smile. ‘Although I did not expect you to bring a companion and I am at a loss as to whom he might be...’

Maeve compressed her lips together and dropped into one of the two visitors’ chairs.

‘She,’ she said crisply. ‘I can tell English isn’t your first language, so I’ll let you off. Besides, we have met – I’m Maeve, from the shop.’

‘Ah, yes. But, still...’

‘Maeve’s here because Jonathan is busy. Peter said something about you might be deported, that’s why I’m here. But I don’t know what I can do to help...’

Maeve got up from her seat and began to look over the greetings cards on the locker; it seemed to be her way of giving him and Ivan a sense of privacy.

‘You can make a statement, Gethin, to the police, to my lawyer to say, I am of good character, not one for fighting. You could say it was not my fault, that I did not start it, that I was protecting you...’

‘I wasn’t there, though,’ Gethin said. ‘I can’t lie about it.’

‘Do you wish that I be deported?’

‘Honestly? I...’

‘Where to, exactly?’ Maeve asked.

‘I do not like to say... but parts of Eastern Europe, they are not nice places to be...’

‘No, I meant exactly. As in, where in the Netherlands?’

‘What?’ Gethin asked.

‘I do not know what you might mean?’ Ivan said, his voice faint. ‘And I am tired, the anaesthetic, it is still making me groggy...’

‘Two of these cards have handwritten messages in Dutch,’ Maeve said, turning to Gethin. ‘And your friend’s accent... it’s very slight, but it’s there. If you didn’t know the accent, you’d never guess... I meant, are you from the north, or south? Near Amsterdam, or Rotterdam, or what? I have a brother in Dordrecht...’

‘Ivan? Is this right?’ Gethin asked. ‘You’re from Holland?’

‘My mother moved there as a little girl.’ Ivan sighed. ‘She was from Poland. But I do not see why it matters now...’

‘Except there are worse places to get deported to, aren’t there?’ Gethin said, pushing back his chair. ‘Good bye, Ivan. Hope the hand heals well.’

‘Wait – I have much more to say to you...’

‘I’m not interested. If you want me to make a statement, fine, but I don’t see how it will help. Maeve, if you’re ready?’

‘Actually, Gethin, I’ve got a few things to say to Ivan first, if you don’t mind,’ Maeve said, taking her seat again with a glint in her eye that made Gethin resolve never to get on her bad side. ‘And we’ll start with, just who do you think you are? Making up all these stories! And talk about intolerant, being all sniffy about a drag act and... and people in dresses? Oh, and calling me ‘he’, that wasn’t nice...’

‘What is it that you want? An apologise?’

‘No, I just want to ask you a question. Are you even gay?’

‘What?’

‘Or did you just think, big fish, small pond? Did you think you’d do better on the other side of the fence?’

‘Fence? I do not...’

‘All this socio-normative chauvinism, is it just a cover? Because it put off all the girls and so you’re trying with the boys now? Are you straight, really?’

‘I... this is not... I do not have to listen to a small tramp such as you...’

‘Very nice,’ Gethin said. ‘You’ve insulted me, my friend, my boyfriend, and now my employee. Maeve, I am sorry you had to hear that.’

‘It’s all right,’ Maeve said. ‘But so much for not knowing the language, right? Vaarwel, Ivan.’

‘What she said,’ Gethin added. ‘Goodbye, Ivan.’

*

‘Well, at least it’s over,’ Maeve said. ‘And we’re on our way nice and early.’

‘He shouldn't have said that, though.’

‘Oh, I’ve been called worse.’ Maeve grinned, and gave a swift giggle. ‘He didn’t deny it, did you notice?’

‘True. Not sure it’s the case, but it shut him up. How did you know he’s Dutch?

‘Oh, my Mum used to love Van der Walk when I was little, and I watched it with her. I sort of got used to the accent, and then, my brother taught me all the rude words... I’m glad I didn’t have to use any of them, though!’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘Any time. Well, not any time, but most times... Well, this is my bus stop, I can get straight home from here. Time-and-a-half, we said?’

‘Double-time,’ Gethin said with a grin. ‘After that performance, you’ve earned it.’


	22. A Peaceful, Uneasy Feeling...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything felt perfect. Everything should have been perfect. But Gethin can't quite believe it...

When Gethin got back from the hospital, Jonathan was already there, a pan of stew on the stove and a hug waiting. He listened to Gethin’s account of the hospital visit with appreciative delight.

‘A virtuoso performance from Maeve! Well done, that girl!’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure she’s mistaken about Ivan, but then, wasn’t everyone? With a bit of luck, he’ll sidle off back to wherever he’s from and leave us in peace!’

‘Hope so. Anyway, I’ve done all I can. It looks tidier in here, have you been busy?’

‘A little. We’ll be changing schedule soon, stepping it up a bit, so we finished earlier today. I’ve just moved a few of my bags, really.’

‘Well, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. Stew’s ready, hope you’re hungry.’

*

The next few days passed in a mixture of sameness and newness, no different from other weeks in the shop, meetings to supervise – but completely fresh and new upstairs, with Jonathan there in the flat in the evenings, in Gethin’s bed overnight, off about his day when Gethin opened up, rarely back at lunchtime, usually home by half six or seven.

Friday evening, though, was theirs, Jonathan back not long after Gethin had locked the shop, the First Quarter's meeting cancelled.

‘Nobody wants to rehearse on a Friday evening or over the weekend,’ Jonathan said. ‘So until we get right up to the last couple of weeks, we’re not going to. It means putting in an extra hour or so in the day, but the company felt it’d be worth it. What do you want to do, club, drink, pictures, what?’

‘Haven’t been to the pictures in years,’ Gethin said. ‘Might be fun. Get something to eat as well, maybe a drink?’

‘Now, that sounds like a plan... where’s that paper, what do you fancy seeing?’

‘I think that Eastwood film’s still showing, if you fancy it? It’s either that or some WWII horror story about a demon in a Nazi prison camp...’

‘Clint Eastwood, every time,’ Jonathan said. ‘Hmm... quite an early showing, meal afterwards? Then on somewhere, if we fancy it?’

‘Perfect. Are you going to show me how to do eye shadow tonight?’

‘If you like.’

Gethin enjoyed getting ready, the process of preparing for the night. With a little tuition, he managed some grey eyeshadow without ending up looking like he’d been fighting, and eyeliner, and allowed Jonathan to pick out clothes for him – a dark green shirt and black jeans.

‘Makes you look even more intense than usual, I love it,’ Jonathan said. ‘Knowing I get to bring you home looking like that...’

‘Thank you, not so bad yourself, you know... so what are you wearing? Or do I get to help choose?’

‘Well... I was going to go out like this,’ Jonathan said. ‘Or didn’t you notice me getting changed? You were certainly staring...’

‘Of course I noticed, and you look great, but I just thought you might want to wear one of your dresses. Or something. I...’

‘It’s a bit nippy tonight,’ Jonathan said. ‘Besides, if we go dancing after, I thought these jeans were pretty flattering...’

‘Pretty tight, you mean!’ Gethin said. ‘And they look fabulous...’

‘That’s sorted, then.’

And the film was good, back row, nobody sitting near enough to care what two random men did instead of watching Dirty Harry on the big screen, but the sense of it, of other people around them in the dark adding to the excitement of one of Jonathan’s already-exquisite blowjobs, Gethin stifling his voice and trying not to laugh as Jonathan rearranged his jeans after and licked his lips, grinning, and the little place they found for supper serving excellent food in such huge quantities that after the meal, Jonathan sighed and patted his ribs.

‘Don’t know about you, Gethin-love, but I don’t think I could go dancing on top of all that food. Just a gentle walk to the tube, I think, maybe buy a bottle, continue at home?’

‘Sounds like a great way to end the evening,’ Gethin said. ‘Besides, I owe you one, so to speak...’

‘Well, I’m not keeping tabs, personally, but it does sound like fun. What other place names are there for you to tease me with tonight?’

*

Out dancing on Saturday, though, once the Saturday Group had left, Jonathan again eschewing a dress in favour of tight trousers, teamed with a blue open-neck shirt, beautiful on the dance floor, his eyes locked on Gethin though every dance with an almost feral hunger, home in the early hours, abandoning various items of clothing on the stairs in their haste to tumble down together in intoxicated, intoxicating love-making, all heat and hands and cries and urgent, pounding lust, and it was wonderful.

So why was it, making bacon sandwiches on Sunday morning, that Gethin felt uneasy? Jonathan was there at his back, touching him up with a suggestion and a smile while he was trying to turn the bacon, affectionate and gorgeous as ever, they were happy together, it was all easy between them.

Except it wasn’t, not quite. But Gethin couldn’t quite put his finger on why; the only thing, and it was possibly just a very small thing, was that since the night of Gethin’s panic attack, Jonathan hadn’t worn any of his dozens of dresses. Maybe it was just, as he’d said on Friday, a bit cold for a frock. Maybe at first, he’d been trying to gauge Gethin’s reaction, and so had worn them more often than he would have done otherwise. Maybe Jonathan just didn’t feel in the mood for skirts.

Or could it be because Gethin’s panic attack had freaked him out, too, and he was keen to avoid anything that might make it happen again?

Whatever it was, Gethin didn’t want to raise the subject and possibly spoil the mood, not with Sunday before them. full of the promise of peaceful lazing before the onslaught of the week. Besides, they were just getting to know each other a little more deeply now, beyond the taste in films and music and food and books, to discover how they felt about the world and its workings, and with every revelation, every confidence, Gethin was drawing closer and closer to the chaos and wonder that was Jonathan Blake.

As for Jonathan, he smiled his easy smile and cuddled up like a great big lion cub, snuggling in around Gethin’s daily routine as if he belonged there.

So when Gethin locked up the shop on Wednesday evening and went up to the flat to find the door to the guest room open and almost all of Jonathan’s bags gone, he didn’t quite know what to make of it.

He didn’t enter the room – to his mind, it was Jonathan’s personal space (not that he seemed to need, or want, personal space, but still...) so he stood staring from the doorway, looking and looking as if by doing so he could make the missing bags appear, as if he could make sense of it.

Keys in the lock down stairs. Gethin reminded himself to breathe, forced his feet to move him down to the kitchen to get the kettle on, Jonathan bounding up the stairs whistling, hanging up his coat, coming to bearhug his arms round Gethin and kiss his neck in greeting.

‘You okay, Gethin?’ he asked as Gethin clung and tried not to and looked for the right words.

‘Ah... yeah. Sorry. Just... the door was open upstairs and I wondered if we’d been robbed by very particular thieves, or something?’

‘Oh... oh, that... yes...’ Jonathan relaxed his arms a little so he wasn’t squeezing quite so tight. ‘If you remember, I did say they were lining up some digs...’

‘Yes, you did say that... but...’

‘And we’re about to enter the next phase of rehearsals, I thought, take them up on their kind offer, get my stuff out of your way...’

‘...not in my way...’ Gethin said, faintly protesting.

‘...easier all round, really, nothing’s changed, just work, I have to work...’

‘Yes, I know. But, I could have helped...’

‘You have enough to do with the shop. The only time you could have helped would have been in your free time, and your free time is our free time. And I have better things to do, when you’re not working, than move bags around.’

‘It’s about that turn I had, isn’t it?’

‘No, of course it isn’t, Geth-love, it’s about full-on rehearsals from Monday onwards, eleven to six, every day except Sunday now, learning lines, costume try-outs, reading scenes through with people who have part-time jobs in bars and day jobs and the director’s an arse and things like that. Just work, Gethin. Work. I’ll still come over, when you haven’t got a meeting on downstairs, and at weekends, it’s just the digs are near the theatre, and it costs less, and...’

‘Really? We’re okay? Not to sound insecure, or anything... God, I sound like a child, don’t I, like you’re my first crush?’

‘Yes, we’re okay. And if you do sound insecure, then I’m flattered I matter...’

‘Of course you matter,’ Gethin muttered.

‘And you matter to me too, Geth-love. I don’t know what I do without you, your hand on my kite string.’

This was said with a little squeeze and shake, the smile that filled up Jonathan’s eyes, and Gethin nodded, and breathed again, and only when he went to make the tea did he realise he was shaking.

They were okay.

He tried to believe it, he wanted to... and, when they were lying together after love, with the dark lying across their bodies like a blanket of truth, he couldn’t see any reason not to believe it.

But when the morning came, Jonathan whistling as he cooked breakfast, that strange, uneasy feeling returned, and Gethin wondered what he could possibly do to stop the disaster he sensed looming from crashing down on them both.

After all, it was his fault, wasn’t it?’


	23. 'Not Moving Out...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jonathan and Gethin face a change in routine...

After breakfast, Jonathan found his Frank Spencer disguise and stood fidgeting at the door to the stairs down.

‘Gethin, I should have said, about the digs. Sorry. But I didn’t want you worrying, and I thought, if I said anything, it’d make it sound like a problem. Which it isn’t. It’s just digs, near the theatre, cheap, cheaper than travelling across and back every day, it’s not that I don’t want to be here... Plus, I thought, move stuff this week, during the day, we’ve got half a chance of a weekend together. Haven’t we?’

Gethin sighed and nodded.

‘Yes, yes, we have. You’ve nothing on Friday or Saturday?’

‘For you, Geth-love, I’d love to have nothing on...’ He winked. ‘Be a bit chilly, though, we’ll have to huddle together for warmth...’

‘Sounds like a plan. Right, in that case, I’ll get on to First Quarter, tell them they can have their meeting Saturday afternoon but not evenings this week... I can’t shut the shop, but I can keep the nights free.’

‘You’d do that for me? For us?’

Gethin nodded and found his head rocking back on his neck as Jonathan dragged him in for a kiss, not just a peck, but a full-on tongues-and groping-hands-delighted embrace.

‘I can stay another half hour,’ Jonathan said, his breath ragged, fumbling at Gethin’s belt. ‘I mean, you go downstairs at half eight, you don’t actually open ‘til nine, do you?’

‘All right.’

‘All right!’

*

Ten past nine, someone outside the shop, Gethin and Jonathan looking down from the window above, Gethin fastening his shirt, treading into his shoes.

‘Not a regular,’ Gethin said.

‘Are you sure?’ Jonathan asked.

‘Pretty sure.’

‘Good, then I go out through the flat door, just a tenant, nothing to do with the flat, you go through the shop, worst commute in the world this morning, right...? You might get away with it!’

The idea of the conspiracy made Gethin laugh, and Jonathan kissed him, reaching for that dreadful coat.

‘And,’ he added, ‘put your jacket on and go to the door taking it off... that’ll convince him.’

‘It says you open at nine,’ the customer grumbled.

‘It does indeed, and we usually are open a few minutes before... bad journey in today, sorry about that... how can I help you...?’

*

The buzz of the stolen half hour lifted Gethin’s heart through the morning. In quiet moments, he caught up on the pre-opening checks he hadn’t had time to do, looked through the meetings diary and decided he needed to make a proper spreadsheet on a wall calendar, so he could see at a glance what was happening, and tried to decide what he was going to say to the secretary of First Quarter. Sadly, there seemed to be no way to say, you can’t have the room tonight, that didn’t sound like, you can’t have the room tonight...

So that’s what he said, once Maeve had arrived and he had a few minutes with the phone.

‘Very sorry, I know it’s short notice, if you want to meet, you can have the room tomorrow afternoon, but the evenings aren’t possible, I’m afraid.’

‘Is this because we cancelled last week?’

‘No.’ Well, yes, it had reminded him that most people had some time to be with their boyfriends at weekends. ‘It’s just I have more evening commitments these days and can’t be around to supervise. And my insurance only covers me for if a member of staff is on the premises. Sorry.’

‘But we’re not going to damage anything...!’

‘No, I know, it’s not that, really. But if after you left there was a brick through, or someone gave us a new paint job, insurance would use it as a loophole not to pay out. You can have Saturday afternoon, if you like.’

‘Well...’

Gethin took a breath and launched into the only possible justification he’d been able to think up.

‘Look, you know, and I know, your membership’s started to dwindle. I think the group’s a great idea, but let’s face it, once everyone’s tapped off with someone else, are they going to keep coming? Or if so, don’t they have other things to do with their evenings? A move to an afternoon meeting could be just what you’re looking for to get interest going again – especially from your very-much-under-twenty-five contingent, the ones whose mums don’t like them being out in London after tea time...’

There was a moment of silence; Gethin could almost hear the secretary thinking.

‘And we’d still get tea and biscuits?’

‘Yes, you can have the room two until four, and you might even benefit from the shop being open, the staff can mention your group to any youngsters visiting the shop...’

‘That’s a good point... Of course, if we could have the room tonight it’d be so much easier...’

‘Sorry. But if they’re all over 18, you can go to Stacey’s bar round the corner. They’re sympathetic. I’ll even put a notice in the shop window for you, if you like.’

‘Let me see how I get on letting them know; I’ll ring you back.’

There was no call, so at five minutes to five, Gethin wrote out a message saying the group was meeting at 2 pm the next day, tonight, try in the bar, and locked up, retreating to his flat determined to ignore any interruptions from outside.

Half six, and Jonathan was back, Gethin almost dragging him into the flat, causing him to laugh.

‘Glad to see you, too, Geth, but...’

‘No – It’s just, I got that meeting cancelled, and I put a notice up, but guaranteed someone’s going to start knocking on the door come ten to seven, so either we go out now, straight away, and stay out until after half nine, or we need to sit with the lights low in the front windows so nobody starts yelling up at us... as some persons have been known to do...’

‘Little candle-lit supper in the flat, nice, easy evening, lights on low, perfect for dancing round the coffee table... sounds like the perfect night in if you ask me. I even brought in a frozen pizza, well, it was frozen half an hour ago...’

‘There’s salad in the fridge.’

‘Really? How’d we manage that? Wonderful, I’ll bang the oven on and we can start getting ready while it’s heating up...’

‘Um, getting ready...?’

‘Did you forget? I thought it was a dress code, ‘nothing on at the weekend’, although I think maybe that doesn’t include accessories, and possibly an apron while I’m cooking, got just the thing for you...’

Ten minutes later, slightly bewildered, Gethin was standing in the bedroom in just his socks while Jonathan swooped around him, discarding clothes as he went.

‘You’re doing that kite-thing again...’

‘Ha! I have the perfect thing somewhere, don’t say I packed it... no, here we are.’

He held out a dangling scrap of bright red fabric and winked.

‘You’re kidding!’ Gethin exclaimed.

‘No, let me show you... can I?’

Gethin laughed. ‘Go on, then.’

He sat on the stool in front of the dressing table and watched Jonathan carefully fasten a scarlet silk bow tie round his neck. The result was startling, the red dramatic against Gethin’s dark hair and pale skin.

‘Gorgeous,’ Jonathan said.

‘Looks like I’m being savaged by a bloody butterfly!’ Gethin said. ‘Mind, I like butterflies. Here, you need something, too.’

He reached out and found a triple strand necklace of plastic beads in the sort of mint green that was popular for 1930s bathrooms. 

‘Your turn,’ he said, getting up and pushing Jonathan down to sit on the bed so he could kneel behind him to fasten the beads around his neck. 

The plastic strands nestled in amongst Jonathan’s chest hair, looking easy and elegant in a casual sort of way, and Jonathan tilted his head one way and another, his reflection mirroring him, the dimness of the room behind throwing him into sharp focus. Gethin saw him, saw himself and Jonathan almost as strangers, a couple, dressed for going out, glamourous and smart, and somehow looking more naked than without the bow tie and beads.

‘Well, will you just look at us?’ Jonathan murmured, primping at his hair. ‘Mr and Mrs 1958, all dressed up and nowhere to go... Right, oven should be hot enough for the pizza now.’

‘And we’d better put the big lights out, just in case any First Quarterers show up.’

There was some echoing noise from downstairs, someone knocking, but not hammering, a couple of times, but nothing Gethin couldn’t quite easily ignore, sitting opposite Jonathan at the little table and watching the flattering flicker of candlelight across the handsome, mobile features.

Feeding pizza slices to each other, drinking a young red that still went down well, the music on low, soft, slow tunes for dancing after (‘Because, Jonathan, if we put any of your disco on, dressed like this, someone’s going to put an eye out...’) and the evening slid along until it was late enough not to worry about First Quarterers, to have a last, slow dance and then take it upstairs where the debate about who was going to be Top was solved by Jonathan lying on his back, Gethin astride him and looking down into his eyes as he slowly, deliberately lowered himself onto his erection, riding him in languid rhythm, watching the flow of sensations drift across his face, bending to kiss him, Jonathan pushing up, thrusting, taking over the pace, hurrying them on towards completion.

*

In a way, it felt as if their Friday night lovemaking set the tone for the rest of the weekend; trying to move slowly, to savour each second, to make the time spool out and last forever, while passion and need and sensation dragged them forward in a rush, so that, impossibly, it was Sunday evening, they were sitting, mostly clothed, on the foot of the bed holding hands and looking at Jonathan’s suitcase and briefcase leaning against the wall.

Jonathan sighed, and leaned in to kiss Gethin’s cheek.

‘Tomorrow,’ Gethin said. ‘Must it be?’

‘Don’t think of it as me moving out, Gethin-love,’ Jonathan said, his voice rough. ‘I mean, really, this wasn’t ever me moving in, you see that? This was you, being kind, sheltering me, letting me have your room and because I’m too tall for that bloody zedbed affair in the other room... and then the boyfriends thing happened, so it makes sense to go to bed together in the good bed. But I... I’m still going to be the boyfriend, right? And I’m not moving out.’

‘Okay, you’re not moving out, I’m still your boyfriend. Got it.’

‘Well, that’s settled then. And, and I can come and stay next weekend?’

‘Of course you bloody can. Whenever you want.’

‘It’s just suddenly this silly little production’s getting attention from some of the less sleazy agents, and the director’s getting sniffy, and... Wednesday, I can come from early rehearsal, stop over, okay?’

‘Okay, that’d be lovely, Wednesday.’

‘It’s late rehearsal Thursday, so I don’t need to be at the theatre until two...’

‘I’ll ask Maeve to cover the morning, you can have a lie in and I’ll just nip down, open up the shop, then come back and join you.’

‘Sounds great.' 

'And the weekend...?’

‘Yes, the weekend. Thing is, don’t know quite how I’m fixed for that yet. Bloody arse of a director. Still, never mind. We still have tonight. It’s just a new routine, we’ll get used to it. It will be all right. And I’ll ring you, every night, after rehearsal. Say goodnight to you. It’ll just be like I’m still here.’

‘Except for the tidy bathroom and the big cold space in the bed.’

‘Well. Let’s see what we can do about that cold bed right now, shall we?’


	24. Humming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin and Jonathan try to adapt to the new routine. And there are more books.

Monday morning, Jonathan leaving, his face glum, kissing Gethin as if he’d never stop, clinging as if he were the only safe anchorage in all of the world.

‘I don’t want to go,’ he said.

‘You don’t have to,’ Gethin told him.

But still, he went.

Half seven that evening, Gethin was staring at the phone in the hall of the flat. Downstairs, the hum of voices, the latest group installed in the back room, the time his own until just before nine, and nothing to do, now, except wait for the phone, hope that Jonathan’s rehearsal would be over, soon, that he’d ring, as he’d promised.

Eight o’ clock, he made himself go into the living room, tidy up a bit, put the kettle on for a drink he didn’t want. Twenty to nine, at last, the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Gethin-love? Gethin?’

‘Yes, yes it’s me, Jonathan, are you okay?’

‘Long bloody day, that’s all.’ A sigh, drawn out down the phone line. ‘What about you?’

‘Got some political children in tonight. Young, eager... me, five years ago, maybe. But a couple of them brought books in for the display.’

‘Yes? Anything interesting?’

Gethin reeled off the titles, heard Jonathan’s laugh, himself smiling at the sound.

‘So now what happens?’ Jonathan asked. ‘With the books?’

‘We log them, along with the name of the person who brought them in. Then we’ll have a social night in a couple of weeks, everyone can vote for a couple of titles, pick a winner, I’ll offer some prizes. Really, how are you?’

‘I’m okay, just tired. You?’

‘I miss you, of course. Food isn’t the same. How are the digs?’

‘Clean enough. Basic. Horrid bed. Shared kitchen. Others from the company here, though, so it’s not like I’m amongst strangers.’

‘Good, that’s good. As long as you get on with them...’

‘You know me, all sweetness and light, Gethin-love, amicable to a fault...’

A series of high-pitched beeps interrupted. God, a bloody pay phone?

‘What’s your number, Jonathan, I’ll call you back...’

‘It’s...’

The line went dead.

Gethin hung up, waited, hoping Jonathan would call back, that he’d enough change to feed the phone, but no.

He stayed looking at the phone as if it had betrayed him until it was time to go downstairs to take the attendance list and lock up, and wash up, after the young politcals had left, returning to the empty flat and the empty bed with all its cold, empty space.

Tuesday passed in a haze of tiredness – he hadn’t slept well – but he did remember to ask Maeve about Thursday.

‘Could you do the morning? I’ll be here to unlock and let you in, get you sorted, and back behind the counter for one...’

‘Yes, of course I can. Going out?’

Gethin grinned and looked down. ‘Staying in. Jonathan – he’s got a new schedule, you see. He’s not around as much, so when he is...’

‘O-kay!’ Maeve said. ‘You can stop there, no need to explain... he is nice, though, why are there no nice straight boys left?’

‘I’m sure there must be, somewhere,’ Gethin said. ‘It’s just you’re not likely to find them in a gay bookshop.’

‘Well, maybe the new display will change that,’ she said. ‘Make people think a bit. Once they’ve stopped giggling, that is.’

Quarter past seven that evening, the phone.

‘Gethin?’

‘Jonathan? What’s the number, I’ll call you back.’

‘Well, I’m phoning from the theatre tonight, got lots of change, don’t worry. Listen...’

‘Yes?’

‘I had this great idea. When you have this social thing for your book contest, I’ll compere it for you, if you like. See if I can scrounge a couple of tickets to the show as one of your prizes...’

‘Jonathan, that’d be great!’

‘Work permitting, of course, but we’re not starting our run until after the Easter weekend, so it shouldn’t be a problem; I can get out of the odd rehearsal here and there... what do you think?’

‘I think it’d be wonderful. You sound better tonight?’

‘Yes, we got on well today, ended the session with some positive praise, so I thought I’d talk to you now, before the gloom sets in on the way home.’

‘You know, you can phone me later too, if you want. Say goodnight, properly.’

‘Oh, I’d love to say goodnight properly...’ Jonathan sighed. There came a high pitched beeping, the sound of money being fed into the phone. ‘There, got a few more minutes. How was work?’

‘I dunno, really. I was tired, felt like I was sleepwalking. Maeve’s going to do Thursday morning for us.’

‘Great, that’s good. It’s only tomorrow, not long now.’

‘Is it that obvious I miss you?’

‘Well, I miss you, too. And your bed, frankly, Christ, the one here, if the mattress was any thinner you could see to read through it... I’d be better sleeping on the floor...’

Or here. Why not just come back here?

Gethin didn’t ask, just in case he got an answer he didn’t like.

‘It sounds dire.’

‘Well, it’s convenient. And the director likes to have us together, I think, so he can round us up at a moment’s notice for extra rehearsals.’

‘Is it worth it?’

Jonathan sighed, and Gethin wondered if that, too, had been left unasked.

‘That’s the thing, you never know until the critics turn up to slate you, and you count the bums on seats, and the agents arrive with a gleam in their collective eyes... so you put in the hours and you pray someone, somewhere, notices, this time.’

‘Sorry, shouldn’t have asked. But it went well today, you said?’

‘Yes, yes, it did. First act’s already shaping. So we’ll move on and forget all the things we’ve worked out and have to work them out again...’

The pips interrupted, shrill, demanding.

‘Okay, I’d better go. Goodnight, Geth-love.’

‘Goodnight. Call me from the flat?’

But the line was humming its call-ended tune.

Twenty to ten, the phone shrilled into life.

‘Jonathan?’ Gethin said, hungry for Jonathan’s voice.

‘Gethin.’

‘Have you just got in?’

‘No, why do you ask?’

Was there a sharpness in Jonathan’s tone, did he answer Gethin’s question too quickly?

‘I didn’t mean... I just thought, it was two hours ago...’

‘Director called us back for ‘one little scene’ and kept us at it until gone nine, what did you think I was doing...? You said you wanted me to ring, I’m ringing, no need to go all jealous on me...’

‘I’m not, Jonathan, God, no. I was worried, that’s all. Glad you’re okay.’

‘Sorry, I’m tired.’ Jonathan’s sigh down the line sounded like the start of heavy breathing, or almost a sob. ‘It always seems to be when I’m working that my relationships fall to bits. And I don’t want that, not with you, Gethin-love, I... sorry.’

‘Okay, it’s okay. For reference – I’m not the jealous type. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t go ballistic, mind, but I’m not... not a Luke about it, do you see?’

‘Yeah, I think so.’ The pips again interrupting. ‘Bloody phone, look, tell you the number tomorrow, okay?’

‘Can’t wait to see you.’

‘And you, Geth, I...’

Gone. Disconnected, and Gethin was shaking, almost.

What had all that been about?

Of course he trusted Jonathan, didn’t doubt him for a minute, really had only been thinking, had it been a horrid journey? Or would it always take two hours from the theatre to the digs, in which case, why not just move back in here? That had been all.

So why was Jonathan so edgy, he didn’t think Gethin would stray, did he? And, okay, great to know Jonathan thought of it as a relationship, that he didn’t want it to fail, but what exactly about being an actor made that likely anyway? Was it the hours, the temptations on Jonathan’s part? Was it that previous boyfriends just hadn’t cared enough, or had been too demanding?

Gethin exhaled heavily and reached for the emergency vodka, pouring himself a half glass.

Well, as he’d said, he wasn’t the jealous type, not the possessive, screaming, in-your-face, how-dare-you-let-someone’s-eyes-rest-on-you! sort. He didn’t think he was demanding... but he wasn’t the type just to roll over and be a doormat, either. He didn’t need to be in control, but he liked to know everything was under control, and he was quite happy to play a supporting role, in the background, not the limelight.

As long as it was Jonathan he was supporting, of course.

*

Maeve was behind the counter during the busy one-until-two slot and he helping a customer amongst the shelves, not in sight of the door, when the bell jingled and a few seconds later he heard a familiar voice.

‘Good day, Maeve Bookshop... would you be at all interested if I told you I’ve got “Memorable Balls” just for you?’

Gethin heard Maeve giggle. ‘Well, not personally, but I’m sure my boss would be... he’s just with a customer at the moment...’

Jonathan! Here so early!

He made himself focus on the customer.

‘Yes, so this section here is where we keep that sort of thing... if there’s nothing here, I can check the catalogues for you...’ He gave his professional smile. ‘I’ll leave you to browse.’

And there Jonathan was, leaning on the counter looking delicious in that stupid beret and coat, a scarf that looked like a tablecloth from a greasy spoon café round his throat, Maeve beaming and dimpling and making Gethin want to blush...

‘Jonathan, you’re here!’

‘I am indeed. I argued that working late last night counted as double time, and if the director didn’t want to pay me for an extra hour and a half, I’d take three off today. So here I am.’

‘It’s lovely to see you...’

‘I’m quite happy to work until four, if that helps,’ Maeve said brightly. ‘You might like to log this book though. Not sure if you heard, Mr Blake brought his “Memorable Balls” for you...’

‘Yes, I did hear that. Very kind of him...’

Jonathan winked.

‘Oh, I think I’ve got “A Love Passage” somewhere, too...’

‘Glad to hear it. Do you want to go up to the flat and put the kettle on while I hand over to my assistant? Once she stops giggling, that is?’

*

The extra time was nice, two unexpected hours, Gethin thought, heading up to the flat. Time to sit and look at each other, to talk and share the sofa and of course, he walked through the door and there was Jonathan smiling that happy-sad heartstring-tugging smile of his, spreading his hands, inviting Gethin in to hug him, so, of course, he had to, he needed to, and Jonathan was so warm through his shirt, his mouth so gentle, his hands so urgent that Gethin decided perhaps talking could wait until later, and led Jonathan up to the bedroom, peeling his shirt off him as they went, allowing his own tee to be stolen from his body on the way, stopping near the top of the flight while Jonathan nuzzled against his belly, holding his hips, Gethin’s fingers drifting through the wayward golden curls until Jonathan looked up, and grinned, and bounced to his feet, bounding to the top of the stairs, pulling Gethin with him.

‘You going to practice your RADA exercises on me again?’ Gethin asked as Jonathan freed him of his jeans and briefs, pushing him gently onto the bed and tugging the fabric away.

‘To start with, maybe.’ Jonathan grinned and shed the rest of his own clothes. ‘We do this thing, it’s a bit like toning, you hum at a steady pace and a certain note and it sets up all these resonances... meant to be really good for the breath, but I think it might be fun in other ways... kiss you first?’

‘Love you to.’

Jonathan laid himself across Gethin’s chest, sparing him the worst of his weight but a very definite presence, his skin hot, his hands drifting with apparent lack of purpose but making contact in rather pleasant places, and Gethin gave himself up to the sensation, to the softness of Jonathan’s lips, the warmth of his tongue, content to be touched, tasted, yes, and, oh, yes, taken, Jonathan kissing his neck and sliding down his body afterwards to fulfil his promise and his mouth, and yes, there was something about the resonances when Jonathan hummed, it felt silly for a moment and then Gethin didn’t care how silly, how strange it might sound, because it felt wonderful, as if Jonathan was singing him to orgasm, and it was amazing...

‘I’ll never be able to listen to you humming without thinking about this, now,’ he said, eventually, holding and being held and kissing and being kissed. ‘Wonderful, the things you learn at drama college!’


	25. New Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the two try to adapt to Jonathan's new routine, and there are biscuits...

Thursday morning arrived too soon, even though Jonathan and Gethin wasted as little of Wednesday night as possible in anything so mundane as sleep. Gethin staggered out of bed at quarter past eight and into the nearest jeans and shirt to fumble his way down to the shop for the pre-opening routine and to wait for Maeve.

Jonathan had murmured something about marmalade biscuits and turned over, when Gethin got up, not waking but leaving Gethin shaking his head and wondering if he’d heard right. Still, pondering the idea of biscuits somehow with marmalade in, or on them, kept him occupied until a tapping at the door at ten to nine and Maeve waving at him startled him to something a little more like wakefulness.

She breezed in.

‘Good morning, Gethin, you look shattered, nice evening, then?’

He grinned and nodded. ‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

‘Right, show me what I need to do...?’

‘It’s all done, just these books here to go on the shelves, if you have a minute. Some new ‘coming out’ ones...’

‘Okay. Right, you get yourself off, you look like you need a coffee, and I’ll see you back down here at one, then.’

‘Maeve, you’re a treasure.’

*

Jonathan was up, after a fashion. He was leaning with his hands braced against the kitchen worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil, his head down. For a moment, seeing him like that, Gethin was worried.

‘Morning, Jonathan.’

‘Gethin, love.’ Jonathan turned with a swift smile that grew into a bright, bright grin. ‘Have you got any marmalade, by any chance?’

‘For on your biscuits?’

‘How the hell do you know that?’ he asked, lifting his eyebrows in surprise.

‘Something you said when I was getting up. Never heard of it before and I can run down to the corner shop for some...’

‘God, you’re nice. You haven’t even had a coffee yet, have you? No, didn’t think so, no used mug hanging around, kettle cold to the touch...’ The kettle clicked off and Jonathan poured water onto the instant coffee in the cups. ’Here you are.’

‘Thanks.’

‘What you do, you get some reasonable biscuits – Malted Milk are good, you know, they have little cows on? Or Digestives will do, you spread one with a bit of butter, or some cream cheese, bang some marmalade on the other, marry them up and you’ve got a bright little sandwich biscuit to start the day with. You can do it with jam and Rich Tea, if you must...’

‘Now, that I can do...’

‘Gethin, my love, you’re amazing! Let’s see, then!’

*

The morning went too quickly, hastened on by lack of sleep and the need to lie down again after the biscuits, and more coffee, and breakfast, and far too soon it was time for Jonathan to sigh his way into his coat and hold Gethin close, his lips in his hair, breathing him in.

‘God, I wish I didn’t have to do this, Geth,’ he said. ‘And before you ask why, I’m beginning to wonder myself. It’s very intense, you see, you have to pretend you’re someone else so much of the time. While I’m in digs, I can sort of still inhabit that same little world, I can come out of it long enough to phone you, that’s not a problem, but it’s such a wrench, if I had to do it every day, it’d be impossible...’

‘It’s okay, like you’ve said, it’s not for long, not really. And Friday...’

‘Yes, Friday. Not that long, Geth-love. Tomorrow, in fact.’ One last squeeze, and Jonathan disengaged from the embrace. ‘I’ll phone you tonight, when I’m back at the digs, it’ll be after half nine.’

‘I bet you still didn’t get me the number?’

‘No, it’s here.’ Jonathan smiled, searched pockets for a slip of paper. ‘I sometimes need a bit of time to wind down after rehearsals, purge the part, sort of thing...’

‘Okay.’

‘Right. Well, talk to you later, see you tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow.’

*

‘It wasn’t so bad tonight,’ Jonathan said over the phone later, quarter to ten, Gethin had phoned back after the first set of pips. ‘I wasn’t really concentrating, mind, but being tired, sometimes that’s a good thing. If you learn your lines early enough, they seep into your subconscious, so you just tick along on automatic. At this stage, it’s just lines and moving around.’

‘No declaiming, then?’

‘No, none of that pretentious Actory nonsense that puts people off. Listen, tomorrow, I’ll come straight from rehearsals, but it might be after eight before he lets us go...’

‘It’s okay, I’ll wait up for you.’

‘Oh, I don’t know... might be nice to think of you in bed...’

Gethin laughed, felt himself growing hot. ‘Well, if you were to ring when you left the theatre...’

‘Good idea.’

Tired as he was, Gethin still lay awake until after midnight, lying in Jonathan’s side of the bed, holding Jonathan’s pillow, and staring across at Jonathan’s dressing table. It held his soul, Jonathan had told him, though what he’d meant by that was a bit of a mystery. But there it was, large and looming, a sold presence. ‘It goes everywhere with me,’ he’d said, and here it was, in Gethin’s bedroom, so that was all right, then.

He stretched out, managed to reach one of the handles, gave it a little stroke.

‘Goodnight, Jonathan,’ he said, and suddenly, easily, he could sleep.

*

Friday passed, quickly to start with, a visit at lunch time from Peter, arriving just as Gethin was handing over to Maeve.

‘Coming out for bite to eat and a chat, Gethin?’

‘Yes, okay. Thanks, could do with a change of scene.’

‘Bad morning?’

‘Not really, think I’m just a bit tired, you know how it is.’

‘Wish I did, darling! Gordon’s had to go to Manchester for a works thing, I know it’s not the other side of the world, but it might as well be...’

‘Only thing for it, then. Bacon butty, let’s face it, scampi and salad just isn’t going to cut it.’

‘And chips, can I have chips as well?’

‘You are suffering, aren’t you? Come on, Peter, tell me all about it, then?’

Over burger and chips (‘I am so going to suffer for this tomorrow, but as I’m suffering now, I don’t care!’) for Peter and a bacon bap for Gethin, two mugs of builders’ tea and copious ketchup, the story came out. Gordon had gone to Manchester for a works conference, but not before there had been Words...

Gethin nodded, letting the words flutter past him until something made him interested enough to start actively listening again.

‘And it’s not your fault, Gethin, don’t think I’m saying that for a minute... but if you’d been a little more conciliating it probably wouldn’t have happened... anyway, I don’t know what went on between you two, but Gordon was saying Ivan was really upset, he didn’t want to see you ever again, it was all lies, a mistake, he didn’t know what that transvestite was playing at...’

‘The transvestite was actually my assistant from the shop, Maeve, she offered to come with me. One or two of Ivan’s cards were in Dutch, and she spotted it... I do like the bit about never seeing me again, though.’

‘Well, I told Gordon, you hadn’t said anything to me about Ivan at all, so I didn’t know what he was on about... but that might explain how upset he was... and, interestingly, Gordon said Ivan had a flight booked to Amsterdam in a few days, I said it would do him good, a nice little holiday... so he isn’t from the eastern bloc, then?’

‘Wouldn’t like to say,’ Gethin replied promptly. ‘Don’t want to be accused of spreading lies or mistakes, all right?’

‘Oh, get you! But Gordon wasn’t happy and I will admit, I didn’t quite like how unhappy he seemed to be. And I made the mistake of telling him... So he huffed himself off to Manchester yesterday, he won’t be back until Sunday and... you do see, don’t you?’

‘I think so... you’re worried, if it’s a works thing, why’s he not going to be back sooner?’

‘Exactly.’ Peter looked extremely sorry for himself. ‘I think he’s making a point. Still, at least, Ivan should be out of your hair now.’

‘That can only be a good thing, but it’s a shame about Gordon. You two seem well-suited.’

‘Thank you, sweetie. I thought so too, and now I’ve gone and sent him off all het up.’

‘Do you know where this works thing is? Could you ring him, perhaps? Or, daft as it sounds, send flowers?’

Peter managed a wan smile.

‘You know, flowers might be the thing, but would they get there in time...? I do have the address, I could phone, I suppose. Or make sure the flowers are at his place when he gets back...’

‘You know, if you want, we can go for that double date in a few weeks. Once Jonathan’s play’s finished its run.’

‘That’s a nice thought. How are things there for you? Oh, no, don’t tell me, you’ve gone redder than the ketchup, lucky you!’

‘It’s nice, he’s really nice...’ Gethin found himself nodding. ‘Of course, rehearsals, they’re tough on him, but we’re managing.’

‘I am pleased for you, Gethin, sweetie, although I bet he takes some handling...?

Gethin said nothing, just stuffed bacon and bread into his mouth.

‘Well, I know you’re not one to kiss and tell, so I won’t push you,’ Peter said eventually. ‘Anything else exciting happening?’

‘Do you know about our book competition? We’re looking for titles with double meanings...’

*

The bliss of no First Quarterers meeting that night, giving him chance to tidy up, to prepare for Jonathan’s visit, him ringing at half seven to say he’d escaped and should be there for nine... time to have a bath run for quarter to, to brew a pot of tea, undress and get into bed.

And to wait until twenty past when he heard the street door slam, keys in the lock of the flat.

‘Gethin?’

‘Up here, Jonathan.’

‘You remembered!’ 

Jonathan’s delighted face appeared in the doorway. He was still wearing his beret, was half out of his coat, his blue and green scarf a banner trailing after him.

‘Yes, of course, been thinking about it all day. Thinking about you all day, too.’

‘And me, too much, used your name instead of one of the characters a couple of times, oh, come here and let me kiss you...’

‘Unfair advantage,’ Gethin said, sitting up and allowing the blankets to drop down to his lap. ‘You’re still dressed.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Jonathan protested. ‘Well, hardly. Working on it. Give me a hand?’

‘How can I resist since you ask so nicely?’

*

Presently, afterwards, Gethin shifted under Jonathan’s weight, causing his lover to stir and kiss his neck; Gethin made only a token protest.

‘There was tea brewing, but I expect it’ll be stewed by now. And your bath’ll be cold.’

‘Don’t really want tea. Bath’d be nice, if it had you in it. That’ll bring the temperature up. But I think I just want to stay here for a bit, if that’s okay? Long day really.’

Gethin ruffled the messy curls, bent his head forward to kiss the top of Jonathan’s head. Jonathan nestled in, hugging and sighing out his breath.

‘...love you...’ he seemed to say, and suddenly grew very, very heavy. A few moments later, there were snores.

Gethin sighed and bit his lip. ‘Love you?’ No, Jonathan had been on the verge of sleep, it was on a par with marmalade biscuits...

‘You too, Jonathan,’ he said quietly, just in case he really had said it. ‘Goodnight, cariad.’ 

*

He woke alone in the dimness, pushing up in the bed and his hand straying to the other side of the mattress. Still some warmth there, so he hadn’t been alone long. The clock, when he found it, said ten to seven... early, really. Early enough for some proper time together before work.

He padded barefoot to the bathroom, comfort break, quick wash, dried his hands, noting that a glow from down the stairs told him a light was on somewhere. A squeak from a door downstairs.

‘Good morning, Jonathan,’ he called down.

‘Good morning, gorgeous. Breakfast in bed for two coming up.’

‘Wonderful. Want a hand with anything?’

‘No, I’ve got it. You get back into bed; I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘Okay. If you look in the left of the cabinet, top shelf...’

‘On my way...’

Gethin just had time to get into bed before he heard feet on the stairs and Jonathan appeared bearing a laden tray which he set down across Gethin’s lap.

Tea in mugs, and a huge plate of Malted Milk biscuits sandwiched together with cream cheese and marmalade; Gethin laughed.

‘You found the biscuits, then?’

‘I did, indeed. I only used one pack, though.’ Jonathan threw off his dressing gown and climbed into bed. ‘Only thing is, dunking can be a bit of an adventure.’

Gethin shook his head.

‘More of a cruncher than a dunker myself.’

‘I’ll remember that.’ 

They ate and drank in messy silence for a few minutes, the adventurous biscuits demanding full attention. Gethin wondered if it would be ill-mannered to make toast, later, because he wasn’t going to get through a full morning’s work on tea and biscuits.

‘Sorry it was so late last night when I got here, bloody Tube... I was shattered, sure I went to sleep rehearsing my lines...’

‘Lines, was it?’ Gethin said with a wry grin, unable to help commenting. ‘I should have known...’

‘Why? Oh, God, what did I say...?’

‘Last thing I heard was, ‘love you’. Then you started snoring.’

‘Oh, I see. Could have been worse, I suppose. There’s a line somewhere about a... no, never mind. What time do you open today?’

‘Nine-thirty, I moved it back half an hour.’

‘Great stuff. So, I know you have to work... do you mind if I go and see the mother this morning? Only she’ll be fretting, I’ve not been over since the spring cleaning, she hasn’t got the number for my digs, I usually try to drop in now and again...’

‘That’s nice, that she wants to see you,’ Gethin said quietly. ‘That you want to see her...’

‘Gethin-love, there’s a story to tell there, isn’t there?’

‘Well. Not that interesting, really. Glad you have a good relationship with yours, though.’

‘Okay, but if you want to talk...’ 

Gethin shrugged, busied himself with biscuits.

‘If you don’t want to talk, that’s okay, too. Have you finished with the cow biccies? Good, because watching you eat them has had this strange effect on me, makes me hungry all over...’

*

‘I think this new routine might be okay,’ Jonathan said later, back for Gethin’s lunch break. ‘I mean, it’s not as easy... so I shan’t take you for granted, and it means the time we do have together is more precious.’

‘There is that.’

‘Besides, they say it’s healthy not to live in each other’s pockets all the time. Not that I know, not really; I’ve never found a pocket I wanted to live in that wasn’t my own before, that sounds either terribly egotistical or rather creepy, doesn’t it?’

Gethin laughed.

‘We’ll have to leave each other’s pockets alone for a bit, I’m due back downstairs and there’s that bloody meeting at two. You can keep me company in the shop if you like, or just take it easy. I know you’ve had a busy week.’

‘I’ll come down and flirt with Maeve, worry the customers... then I might rest up a little, save my energy for later. I’ll need it, I hope...’

‘Sounds fun. What do you want to do tonight, particularly?’

‘Early dinner – I’ll cook. Dancing, a few drinks, come back here afterwards and you can take advantage of me?’

‘My kind of night. Lovely.’


	26. 'Just a Phase...'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a casual remark almost throws Gethin into a tailspin...

Gethin sat on the end of the bed watching Jonathan at his dressing table getting ready for going out. He seemed to have a ritual where he stroked the surface of the table, patted it, lined up everything neatly... and then fell on the cosmetics with abandoned exuberance until he’d made a selection. As part of his routine, he discovered a small drawstring pouch resting behind a jewellery box at the back.

He paused, and then lifted the bag, dangling it by its cord and smiling at Gethin.

‘What’s this?’

‘Oh.’ Gethin grinned sheepishly. ‘I got one or two bits in a sale... didn’t know what I was looking for, only the ‘not-tested-on-animals’ seemed important... I just... practice, you know. Alone. After the shop’s closed.’

‘Let me see... “Silver Fern”, “Bright Buttercup”... and a purple mascara? Very dramatic... what do you do, show me?’

‘Um... mess around?’

But Jonathan had risen from the stool and now gestured Gethin towards it. His eyes were eager as he sat on the bed behind Gethin, his legs either side of the stool, framing him, touching his thighs.

Suddenly self-conscious, Gethin hesitated. 

In the mirror, Jonathan smiled encouragement.

‘I used to mess around as a kid, the mother’s lipstick, you’d think she would have realised what I was going to be when I grew up, at the age of seven I could out-make-up any girl in the street... bless, she thought it was because I wanted a sister at first, then that I was going to be an actor... Geth-love, it’s about self-expression, there’s no right or wrong...’

‘Okay.’

‘Okay.’

Gethin spread bright yellow eyeshadow on his lower lids. He followed with a narrow line of shimmering “Silver Fern” just at the base of the yellow, then used the mascara – more of a magenta, he thought, than purple, on his lashes. His hand didn’t shake, he didn’t poke himself in the eye or smear cosmetics on unintended bits of his face, so that must count as a success... but what he’d thought of, in his previous practice runs, as startling, but effective, now looked clownish, over bright, a garish combination.

‘But that looks stunning! Really brings out your eyes... have you got any other colours?’

Gethin shook his head.

‘Only got them because they were on special,’ he muttered.

‘Pity. Because if you had a bronze green, or a fern green, you could add that to your upper lids and it would really complete the look. Gorgeous, though... and watching you was so... mmm...’

Jonathan pulled close against Gethin’s back, bringing his mouth close to his ear.

‘Can you feel it, what watching you has done to me? I’m dying for you, desperate... do we have to go out yet?’

Gethin swallowed. He could, indeed, feel Jonathan’s response hard against him, could see the desire in his boyfriend’s eyes, was acutely aware of the uncoiling of lust in his own groin. He swallowed, moistened his lips, felt Jonathan’s heated breath on his neck.

‘We don’t want to go out too early, do we?’ he said. ‘Pubs are full of kids before nine anyway. I reckon we could spare an hour.’

It was rather more than an hour later before Jonathan was ready to do his own make-up, breaking into a grin from time to time as he caught Gethin’s eye in the mirror.

‘Now, watch yourself, watching me, if it has the same effect on you as it did me, we’ll never get out...’

‘I think I can probably last a little while. Very thorough, you were. What are you wearing this evening?’

The last was said casually, but Jonathan paused before answering.

‘I feel like a green shirt tonight. Blue jeans.’

‘Oh. Okay. Because if you wanted...’

With a somewhat exaggerated sigh, Jonathan twisted round to give Gethin a stern look.

‘You’re about to mention dresses again, aren’t you? It was just a phase, I’m not bothered now. Okay, Luke didn’t like it, so maybe I wore them more often than I would have, just to show him I could. Self-expression, Gethin-love, I’ve expressed that part of my personality quite enough for a little while, okay? If I want to wear a dress, I will, don’t think I’m not wearing one because I’m not wearing one, I’m just not wearing one and shall continue to not wear one and wear what the hell I like whatever that might be. Okay?’

It was said gently, nothing that could sound like impatience or annoyance, and ended with a wink and a smile, so Gethin nodded, and shrugged.

‘Um. You look great in green,’ he said. ‘As long as you know I know you can wear what the hell you want, that’s fine.’

Jonathan stared for a moment, shook his head, and then snorted a laugh.

‘Oh, God, Gethin, what did I sound like? Sorry, it’s just... the time you got upset... I didn’t like to see you like that...’

‘Well, it wasn’t your fault. So, are we going dancing or what?’

‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy for ‘or what’ just now. Dancing, I think.’

So they moved past the topic of Jonathan-not-in-a-dress, had a fantastic night both on the dance floor and off it, but Gethin wasn’t quite easy. In the odd moments between dancing and drinking when his mind could wander, he found he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that not all was well... He wasn’t quite certain Jonathan had really meant what he’d said; not about Gethin’s panic attack, God, no, he’d been so concerned at the time, after, but about his own sartorial habits... Jonathan had loved dressing up so much, had been so keen to share, looked so bloody comfortable in a frock, he couldn’t just shrug it off as a phase, could he?

So was he doing it to be considerate and kind, or was he just terrified Gethin would freak out on him again? And wouldn’t it bother him, really, after a while?

But Jonathan downed the last of his pint and gave that closed-mouth happy smile, giving Gethin’s shoulder a little squeeze.

‘Go home, then?’ he said. ‘I know it’s not late yet, but easier to get a cab this time of night, after the pubs shut, before the clubs throw out.’

Home. The flat was still home, then?

‘Yes,’ Gethin said. ‘Home’s a good idea.’

*

Home and off with the make-up, couple of bottles of beer, off with the clothes, bed and cuddling and sleep with Sunday ahead and everything perfect with only the ghost of Monday somewhere ahead, and who would have thought that such a wonderful, blissful peace would be so fragile?

It wasn’t that the odd sense of disconnection was returning, a slight distancing, in spite of all the affection and the sex and the fondness, Jonathan preparing to withdraw and plunge back into Actor Mode, though that was there, but Gethin understood, he thought, didn’t think of itself anything to worry about.

It wasn’t even the fact that Jonathan had to go back to his digs Sunday evening, rather than Monday morning that turned the mood into something fraught and vulnerable; it was something much simpler, a casual, small remark that Jonathan wouldn’t, couldn’t have realised would have such a powerful impact.

Evening had arrived bringing dark outside the windows of the flat, time for Jonathan to gather his bits and pieces together after a wonderful day of easily-banished hangovers, lazy love-making, a proper dinner and an afternoon of cuddling and bad television, and Gethin was watching Jonathan tidy away his make-up into the right drawers while trying not to mind the sense of disassociation that was growing again between them.

‘I’d say feel free to put your things in here, too, but it’s hardly going to be worth it,’ Jonathan said. ‘The mother’s almost agreed to give it house space, I’ll talk her round soon enough, I know you’ll be glad to get rid of it, taking up half the bedroom.’

What? No, he couldn’t...! The only way Gethin had been able to sleep lately was knowing the dressing table, and Jonathan’s soul, was here with him, still...

‘There’s no need,’ Gethin mumbled, too stunned to respond, to find decent arguments against the idea.

‘Well, have to organise the minibus again of course... it’s good of you not to have minded it being here, Gethin.’ Jonathan sighed, picked up his bag, and headed for the stairs. ‘Don’t want to go, it’s been a wonderful weekend, just what the doctor ordered... I’ll ring when I get in, shall I? Three rings and hang up, then you know it’s me and you can phone me back if you like. No pips interrupting that way.’ 

‘Yes, okay.’

And although Gethin clung as they kissed and hugged goodbye, Jonathan didn’t seem to realise it was anything more than how he was hugging and kissing, and clinging back.

*

The week began to pass. When Maeve came in for her Wednesday hours, in a quiet moment, she cornered Gethin by the back room door.

‘Okay, I don’t want to be nosey, but it’s Wednesday and you’re still wearing your Monday Morning Face of Gloom. What’s up?’

Gethin sighed and shook his head. Reserved as he was, it would be nice to have someone to confide in...

‘Jonathan’s new rehearsal schedule, it’s a nightmare.’

‘Oh, dear! I thought you hadn’t mentioned him being round as much.’

‘And he’s meant to be staying over tonight, but he’s not said when he’ll be able to get away...’

‘You still want me to do tomorrow morning for you, though?’

‘Yes, of course. He’s still coming.’

Maeve raised an eyebrow. ‘You said that a bit quick!’

‘Well, he will. Just I don’t know what time, exactly and... sometimes...’

Maeve turned the door sign to ‘Closed’, stuck the ‘Back in Ten Minutes’ card on the glass and put the back room kettle on.

‘Sometimes...?’ she said once she’d set coffee down on the table.

‘Sometimes it feels as if he isn’t here. Work, it’s hard for him to shift out of his role, I think. But it’s okay, it’s...’

Jonathan had said he loved him, sort of. Called the flat ‘home’. He’d taken over things too, cooking, washing up, things he didn’t have to do, because he wanted to. Almost like he was showing how domesticated he was, how useful. And that wasn’t like pulling away, was it? 

‘Gethin...’ Maeve laid her hand on his wrist for a brief moment. ‘If it’s okay, you don’t need to worry then, do you? Unless there’s something else?’

‘There... there might be.’ Suddenly, desperately, he needed to talk, to share some of the fear, to hear it out loud and maybe realise it wasn’t as scary as he thought. But he couldn’t say everything, not to Maeve, straight, nice, trying-so-hard Maeve... ‘I think it’s me... not... he thinks I don’t want him doing something he likes, or he thinks if he does it’ll upset me, annoy me or something...’

Maeve sat up straight and took a breath.

‘Gethin...’ she began slowly. ‘I don’t know what you might be talking about, I don’t know enough about your... your lifestyle to be able to guess and it’s none of my business anyway, but, just tell me... it’s not... not something dangerous, is it? Nothing that might hurt you? Either of you?’

‘What? God, no!’

‘...because Jonathan seems really nice, and lovely, but sometimes people can be deceptive...’ 

She broke off, having just registered what Gethin was saying, seeing the shock and horror on his face.

‘Oh. Okay, sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I just... well, we were all taken in by Ivan the Creepy, weren’t we?’

Gethin nodded. ‘I suppose we were. But no, nothing like that. Nothing I mind, nothing dangerous or uncomfortable, or even silly, just... he’s got the wrong idea about how I feel about it, that’s all, and he won’t bloody listen...’

‘Well, that’s men for you, isn’t it?’ she said, laughing. ‘Gay or straight, it doesn’t seem to make any difference... you could show him I suppose, if you think it matters to him. If there’s a way to do that.’

‘He says it was just a phase, that he’s over it,’ Gethin said. ‘So how can I, without it looking like I don’t believe him?’

‘You’ll find a way,’ Maeve said, as the noise of someone rattling the shop door intruded on the conversation. ‘But it tells you something, doesn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘That you’re more than ‘just a phase’ where he’s concerned. Otherwise, it’d just be like giving something up for Lent. You go to your break now, I’ll sort this.’

He nodded and went through to the stairs, letting himself into the flat with quiet relief. Talking had helped, he thought, and what if Maeve was right? What if he was more than just a phase to Jonathan?

Gethin found himself smiling. Actually, he wouldn’t mind that at all.


	27. New, New Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are more disruptions to Jonathan's schedule...

It was almost ten before Gethin heard the key in the lock, and he hurried to the door to be there with welcoming arms.

‘Oh, Geth-love, are you a sight for sore eyes!’

Jonathan all but fell on his neck, hugging and nestling in so fondly that Gethin’s breath caught in his throat.

‘Lovely to see you, are you okay? What can I get you, vodka, beer, tea?’

‘Cup of tea’d be lovely. In a minute.’

Jonathan loosened his hold a little, pulling back for a kiss, and Gethin lifted into the sensation of the joining of their mouths and tongues, aware of how much he had missed this man, how much he himself had been missed.

‘That’s better,’ Jonathan said eventually, allowing the kiss to finish but still seemingly reluctant to let Gethin get to the kettle. ‘It’s been a long start to the week. This new routine’s going to be rubbish.’

Gethin eased away, taking Jonathan’s hand and pulling him into the kitchen while he made tea.

‘I thought we’d agreed we could cope with the new routine?’ he said, busy with cups.

‘Ah. As of this morning, the new routine is the old routine. We’ll have to have a new, new routine now. Bloody director’s decided it would ‘showcase our talents’ if all the cast learns two roles and we swap around every few nights. Which is okay, sort of, because you always know your own part and bits of the other players’, especially the ones you act with and against the most. But, oh, no, more than that. He knows I’ve done... a range of things, so he’s decided I have to be...be the other lead, too, so much for being done with that... that is, it’s almost as much to learn again as what I’m doing now...’

‘Other lead?’

Jonathan made a good pretence of not hearing this.

‘And it means extra work, rehearsals, timetables, less free time, oh, God, it’s a nightmare, Geth-love... I shouldn’t have come tonight, only I’d promised you, he wanted to keep us all until ten, I wandered off when we broke for five minutes and didn’t go back... and we’re starting earlier mornings, too... I’m going to have to leave here nine at the latest...’

Gethin listened and nodded and made tea, carried it into the living room and waited for Jonathan to follow, still sounding off about the changes.

‘...and the weekend! God, Gethin, we won’t have a weekend! I have to work Fridays from now on, and rehearse on Saturday, and I won’t get here until stupid o’clock again, too late to go out...’

‘We’ll stay in then.’

‘What? Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘I mean, I can see it’s awful for you, you look shattered, and no, there’s plenty more to say, but it doesn’t matter. This is your career, what you love doing...’

Jonathan interrupted with a snort.

‘Yes, so tonight you’re not loving it. But all the other times, I’ve heard you talk about it, you do love it.’ Gethin shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative, stop acting? Then what? Kick yourself for letting the chance pass you by? What I meant was, I don’t mind not going out if the alternative is staying in with you. Now, sit down and drink your tea.’

‘Bossy,’ Jonathan said, finally getting round to taking off his coat and dropping with a sigh onto the sofa. ‘Thanks. For the tea, and... for what it’s worth, I like staying in with you, too.’

‘I can’t imagine how hard it is, what you do,’ Gethin said. ‘But is he right, the director? Is it a good idea to swap the roles around like this?’

‘I’m not thinking clearly, I’m too close to it... I suppose. It’s a small company, one of dozens, you’ve got to do something to get noticed... and it shows we’re versatile, that the director’s not afraid to take risks... it looks good to the agents and to anyone wanting to produce a show... but the other role, it’s... not one I wanted to do. That’s all.’ 

Jonathan swigged down his tea and looked hopefully at the empty mug until Gethin grinned and got up.

‘I’ll make some more tea, shall I? Do you want to stay up a bit, or would you like a lie down?’

‘Combination of both sounds fun. If I’ve got the energy. Thank you, Gethin-love.’ Jonathan heaved himself to his feet and came to put his arms round Gethin for a moment. ‘I’m so glad I’m here.’

Gethin leaned back against him.

‘So am I. Want some biscuits with this tea?’

‘Lovely.’

*

Lying in bed with Jonathan in his arms. Gethin felt warm, comfortable, at peace, even though his boyfriend wasn’t relaxed yet, still occasionally blurting out odd, apparently unconnected phrases. It didn’t matter – except that whatever it might be mattered very much to Jonathan – but to Gethin the important thing was that they were together, Jonathan was talking to him, trusted him enough to unburden to him.

‘...and there’s another thing! We’re not getting paid overtime for the extra hours, it’s all down to us how quickly we learn the lines, if we don’t get the work done he says it’s our own fault for not preparing properly... a decent company wouldn’t do this... that rep I was with last year, they didn’t behave like this...’

He sighed and rubbed his face against Gethin’s shoulder. A full day’s stubble rasped his skin, exfoliating roughly.

‘I hoped they’d want me back, but of course they didn’t... my fault really. Well, mine and Luke’s. He was getting edgy that I was rehearsing all the time and he didn’t like it, didn’t understand what I was doing, so I invited him to rehearsals, made a holy bloody show of me, well, you’ve seen him in action... it’s a lot of strain on a relationship, Gethin.’

‘Starting to see that. And I was going to say, I’ll come with you in the morning, to the theatre, keep you company, but after that story, if you didn’t want me to...’

‘Oh, I don’t think you’d do a Luke on me, would you?’

‘Only if you deserved it. No, even then, that’s not my style. I’d let you know if I wasn’t happy, but I wouldn’t let half the world know at the same time, Jonathan.’

‘Thank you. I’d like to show you my digs, the theatre. But it’s a lot to ask, a long way to go and the shop...’

‘Maeve’s covering the morning. It’d give us chance to be together a bit, at least.’

‘That’d be nice. Gethin-love...’

‘Mmm?’

‘This... how I’ve been tonight. All over the place, like that kite you’re always on about. Sometimes, I... might get worse.’ 

He said it with an air of confessing to a terrible crime, and Gethin laughed.

‘Okay, thanks for warning me! I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘No, but I yell and shout and lose my temper and I’m just not a very nice person... I try, I really do try not to take it out on anyone, but you can’t yell at your director and it sort of builds up... I’d just hate to spoil things, Gethin, you and me... it’s been lovely. And I want it to keep on being lovely, like I say, this is when things fall apart for me...’

‘Hand on your kite string, that’s all you need.’

Jonathan breathed out slowly, starting to relax at last.

‘I don’t know... I hope so, hope you’re right...’

‘The important thing is, you’ve warned me, we’ve talked about it. And I’m not some young kid, going to go off on one at the drop of a hat. That doesn’t give you permission to be an idiot, mind.’

Jonathan laughed, settling against Gethin.

‘I will try not to be an idiot, Gethin-love.’

‘I’ll try not to yank your string too hard, Jonathan-love.’

Jonathan settled into sleep, leaving Gethin to lie awake listening to the resonant rasp of his breath. Oddly, he felt as if he’d been entrusted with Jonathan’s safety, as if he was keeping guard over him.

He thought about how vulnerable Jonathan was, really, so dependent on the approval of a director, so eager to be domestic and helpful (except tonight when he was fluttering about like a kite on acid), the touch of quiet desperation in his voice when he’d said he’d hate to spoil things... and what had that been, about playing the other lead? Wasn’t there usually a leading man and a leading lady, so...?

Something clicked.

Oh.

That’s why Jonathan had been a bit cagey; if the other lead was a female role, he was going to have to do drag. 

No wonder he was stressed, then, having been deliberately trying not to cross-dress, and now finding he was expected to, for work... and then, how exactly would that... what was it...? showcase his talents? It didn’t seem fair that he was expected to just do it, that he couldn’t refuse...

Did he really not want to do it, or did he just wish he didn’t have to? Was it for fear of upsetting Gethin that he was worried, or because he hadn’t been ready to stop and this would be like putting down a bottle of whiskey in front of a freshly-reformed alcoholic...

Well, the only way he could possibly help Jonathan with this would be if he could really convince him drag wasn’t a problem, prove it, somehow.

And that wasn’t going to be easy, Jonathan already hadn’t been listening...

‘Gethin-love...? You asleep?’

‘Not asleep, Jonathan. I thought you were.’

‘Might have been. Awake now, I know what you need, a lullaby.’

‘What?’

‘Shh...’ Jonathan began to wriggle and slide down the bed. ‘Sing you to sleep.’

Presently, settled comfortably between Gethin’s legs, Jonathan began to hum.

And some time after that, Gethin’s voice joined Jonathan’s in a brief, dissonant counterpoint... and then, finally, sleep.

*

The morning brought gritty eyes and the sense of not enough sleep, rain on the windows, and a hand exploring beneath the covers, a mouth mumbling at the skin beneath his ear.

‘Good morning, Jonathan.’

‘Morning, Gethin-love. It’s just gone seven, have we got time...?’

‘Not likely to say no with you doing that, am I?’ He rolled over, pulling Jonathan into his arms. ‘Come on, then, what do you want?’

Jonathan grinned.

‘Everything,’ he said. ‘Or at least as much as we can fit in, so to speak, before we have to leave.’

*

‘Morning, Gethin,’ Maeve said as he let her in at quarter to nine. ‘You look... rushed?’

He grinned. ‘Jonathan’s got to leave in a few minutes, early rehearsals, but I’m going with him to the theatre. So, yes, rushed. I’ve not managed to get to the restocking yet, but everything else is done... I think... your float’s in the cash register, I expect I’ll be back around eleven or so.’ He set a cup down next to the till. ‘And Jonathan made you a cup of tea.’

‘Oh, bless him say thanks for me, will you?’ she said, hanging up her coat. ‘See you later.’

It rained as they walked to the tube, not holding hands, not in the busy morning with rush hour crowds around, but walking close to each other, talking, being silent, sitting together, the crush of people meaning they had to squeeze up close, thighs and shoulders touching. Jonathan turned and smiled his fond smile, and Gethin nodded and grinned, remembering the journey home from the book fair when they’d wished the train fuller, just so they could squash together as they were now. 

The journey involved a change of line, a route march from one platform to another, a broken escalator and then a fifteen minute walk in the rain. At a corner of a tired semi-residential street, Jonathan halted.

‘Straight ahead to the theatre, down there and round the corner. Left to the digs. We’ve got a few minutes, want to see my rooms?’

‘Yes, okay.’

It was still raining as Jonathan led him up the steps of a tall Victorian terrace now badly converted into too many flats.

‘I’m on the ground floor, handy for the phone.’ Jonathan waved at the public payphone inside the doorway. ‘At the back here, it’s not too bad.’

It was small, overfull, the furniture old and tired, a single bed in an alcove with a curtain across.

‘Cosy,’ Gethin said. ‘It’s a long way for you to come to the flat, though.’

‘Worth it, though. So, no time for anything... besides, single bed, kills the mood a bit.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, huddle together, you know. Intimate.’

‘Ha, intimate!’ He picked up a small bag from on top of an overpopulated shelf. ‘I got you this Monday, forgot to pick it up to bring yesterday... nothing much.’

‘Thank you, it’s kind.’

‘You don’t know what it is yet.’

‘You, thinking of me when you probably should be thinking about your lines or something, that’s what it is...’ He looked inside the bag, grinned. ‘Eye-shadow. Green. Thank you. I’ll wear it for you, next time we go out.’

Jonathan smiled, offered his cheek for a kiss, and swapped one bag for another.

‘I have to go, Gethin-love, come with me if you like? Or just to the corner, whatever...’

Feet on the stairs as Jonathan was locking up, someone pausing to speak.

‘Going my way, Gloria dear?’

Gethin saw Jonathan freeze, suddenly bowed under the appellation. The voice continued.

‘You were missed last night, where did you get to? Practicing your new part as leading lady? I... Oh, hello! Didn’t realised you had company, sorry. Well, that explains it, although we were sent to hammer on your door, we were convinced you weren’t home...’

Jonathan looked round, locked his eyes on Gethin’s face, a mixture of pleading and horror there. Gethin smiled and reached out to stroke his arm before stepping out of the shadows. 

Somehow, Jonathan found his voice.

‘Trevor, yes, so... Gethin, this is Trev, he’s one of our best supporting actors... this is Gethin. My boyfriend.’

‘Oh...’

‘Hello. And, just so you know, I wasn’t here last night, if that’s what you’re thinking...’

‘Geth...’

‘...we were at mine. I live above “Gay’s the Word” bookshop, you should come along, we’ve got some interesting stock.’ And, since Jonathan had said ‘boyfriend’, he had no qualms about linking arms as he nodded to Trevor. ‘How’s this new double-role thing working for you, then?’

‘Not so bad, my second part’s a bit more comedic... you know, I think I’ll give Carlos a knock, walk along with him, three’s a crowd, and all that...’

‘We’ll get off, then,’ Jonathan said, recovering. ‘See you at the theatre.’

Outside, the rain had stopped, the pavements wet and glistening. Gethin waited for Jonathan to say something, but it didn’t happen; he just dropped Gethin’s arm and took his hand instead.

They reached the corner and paused, Jonathan, finally, breaking the silence, his voice heavy.

‘Station’s that way. It’s been fun, Gethin-love.’

What? 

‘Don’t you want me to come to the theatre?’

‘Not if you don’t want to, after what Trevor said...’

‘I wasn’t aware he’d said anything.’

Jonathan looked as if he was going to speak, but Gethin shook his head and kept talking. 

‘It’s an honour, if you think about it, you read for a smaller part, they gave you the lead anyway and now you get to be both the stars? I think I’d already worked out your other character would be female, even before I heard the name Gloria...but seems like we’re back to the drag thing again...’

‘The drag thing. Yes.’

‘I keep telling you, it’s fine.’

‘Trev, he won’t have thought, he’s not like that, not bitchy like some of them. So it’s okay? We’re okay?’

‘We’re fine. Now, Maeve’s expecting me back for...’

‘If you need to go...’

‘Will you just listen? Or are you trying to get rid of me? No? Right. Good. Maeve’s expecting me back for twelve, but I don’t start until one, so if I can ring her from the theatre, I can stay a couple of hours. If you like. If the director won’t throw me out.’

‘I’d like that.’

They set off again, holding hands bravely all the way to the theatre, a tatty, battered former church hall. Outside, Jonathan paused.

‘Thing is,’ he said. ‘I’m reading Gloria this morning for the first time, and... well, I wanted to tell you, tried... just shied away from it. Only it’s just like the act, it’s work, Gethin, honest, I can keep it at the theatre... but I don’t know how to get a handle on it...’

‘My Aunty Dilys,’ Gethin said. ‘Always fancied herself treading the boards. Bring her to it, if it helps.’

Jonathan stared, grinned suddenly, and kissed Gethin’s forehead, a benediction.

‘Bless you!’ he said. ‘Aunty Dilys, life and soul of the party... Come on in, then. Oh, and it’s not a dress rehearsal, you don’t need to worry...’

‘I’m not worried, cariad! Now, come on, your friend Trev’s just up the road and he’s staring.’

*

Gethin rang Maeve to tell her he’d be later than expected so he could stay until after the mid-session break when everyone gathered around a tea urn and drank substandard tea and coffee. Jonathan gravitated to his side, but if Gethin had hoped to be able to talk to him, he was disappointed. 

Between cast members commenting on Jonathan’s performance, and people asking him about himself, he hardly had time to do more than glance at his boyfriend. But Jonathan’s eyes were easy again, his smile relaxed, and Gethin chatted and promoted the shop, and was generally on his best behaviour until tea break ended.

‘I’d better be going. You were great, you know, you’re going to be amazing. I loved that bit where you did both parts, one after another...’

‘Thank you; it’s early days yet, with Gloria,’ Jonathan said. ‘But Aunty Dilys is helping. Let me walk you out.’

A small, private moment in the vestibule, nobody to see them kissing, hugging. 

‘See you Saturday,’ Jonathan said. ‘And I’ll ring you later, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Back at the shop for half twelve, Maeve looking up and smiling.

‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

‘Yes, no problems. Your friend Peter was in, just to say hi, and something about the flowers worked a treat?’

‘Good, that’s good.’

‘And Brights Press called, something about would you like to stock their books, number’s on the pad. I said you were in meetings most of the day.’

‘You’re a star, Maeve. Mind if I get my lunch?’

*

Upstairs, he made a quick sandwich that he didn’t really want, and wandered into the spare room. Mostly empty now, of course, evidence of Jonathan reduced to one or two bags. He opened the wardrobe, expecting to see some dresses there, the elaborate drag costumes, maybe, but the wardrobe was empty. 

Except...

As he went to shut the door, something in the shadowed recesses caught his eye. There, at the back, as if it had been rolled up and stuffed away out of sight in shame, was the blue-green dress Jonathan had helped him try on, the one that had sent him into a full-blown freak-out.

Gethin took it out, shook it, held it up. He remembered the feel of the fabric against his skin, how odd it had felt. Not uncomfortable, not scary, at the time. Just... different. 

Folding it up loosely, he put it down on the zedbed and thought about Jonathan on the corner, expecting him to want to walk away just because he’d found out about Gloria.

Jonathan obviously still thought it mattered more to Gethin than it did, in spite of all his assurances... 

Or was that it? Or did it matter more to Jonathan than Jonathan realised, had the short spell of not-cross-dressing made him realise it wasn’t a phase, he wasn’t over it, hadn’t expressed himself enough in that guise?

Did that matter?

‘Of course it doesn’t bloody matter, Jonathan!’ he muttered. ‘How to get you to bloody see that, though?’

And as soon as he’d said it, he realised, and he stared at the dress, stared at is as if it was the biggest challenge he had ever faced, and then left the room, shutting the door on the dress and all it might mean.

He wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer yet.


	28. Desensitizing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin thinks abut The Dress and has a comparatively uneventful evening out, for once.

In and around his daily routine, when he could spare a thought from Jonathan, Gethin thought about the dress, trying to, he didn’t know how else to put it, desensitize himself to it. He looked at it first thing Friday morning before he went down to get breakfast. Lunch time, he made a point of picking it up and putting it on a hanger, moving it to the back of the door in his bedroom, stroking it.

Maybe tomorrow, he might be able to try it on?

Except he couldn’t decide when would be best. First thing, so he had a finite timescale, wear it for a few minutes then change for the shop? But if it had a bad effect on him, that’d make him useless at work... similarly, lunch time was out... not before Jonathan rang, either, in case he did get upset and Jonathan heard it in his voice. Not before, or after, any of the groups, not...

Not yet, basically.

By the time he shut up shop on Friday afternoon, he’d decided he was being silly, and by Friday evening, waiting for the phone to ring, Jonathan in his break, he realised he was getting bored with the whole being-scared-of-a-bit-of-cloth thing, so while he sat in the living room with music on low and a bottle of beer for company, he brought the dress down and took it off its hanger, sitting with the folded frock on his lap and stroking it as if it were a cat.

The phone jangling, him up, answering, ignoring the puddle of fabric now on the floor.

‘Jonathan?’

‘Gethin-love?’

‘Yes, how are you? How were rehearsals?’

‘Glad they’re done for the night. Been looking forward to talking to you all day...’

The conversation didn’t last long enough, even with Gethin calling back. Promises of tomorrow, early, well, before nine, that’s sort of early, isn’t it? 

‘We could go out, if you like,’ Jonathan said. ‘Meet part way – where we changed lines, there’s a few friendly pubs round there. Just a few drinks, then come back home to your flat?’

‘Yes, all right. When and where, exactly?’

‘I’ll ring you tomorrow on my way out of the theatre, okay?

‘Okay, I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Well, I’d better go. Goodnight, Gethin-love.’

‘Goodnight, Jonathan. Sleep well.’

Buoyed by the promise of a night out and spent with Jonathan, Gethin returned from the phone holding on tight to the happy feeling. Not quite without thinking, he picked up the dress and put it on over his tee shirt and jeans, wrapping it round like a dressing gown and tying it loosely.

Felt fine.

Pretty sure it looked stupid, though.

Still, that didn’t matter, what mattered was he was wearing it, he wasn’t hyperventilating, or panicking.

Or looking in the mirror either.

Of course, that had been what sparked it off, he’d been okay until he’d actually seen what he looked like...

But that was enough for one day. Now he’d actually got round to facing the dress, he saw that the hard part had been just getting started, and that was done, now. Putting on a dress would never be so difficult ever again.

He didn’t quite think he had the courage to go and meet Jonathan wearing it, hell no, not in a part of town he didn’t know, even if he could usually take care of himself. But it was a beginning, he promised himself as he returned the dress to the darkest recess of the wardrobe; it wouldn’t do for Jonathan to spot it and take it away, not now.

 

Gethin almost bounced through the day, grinning and shaking his head when Maeve asked him what had caused it.

‘Going out with Jonathan tonight. Couple of drinks, back here after. It’s hard work, this job for him, two roles, he’s got, but it won’t be for long and then it’s only a two-week run.’

‘Are you going to see him in it, when it’s on? Can I come?’

‘I’d like to, yes. That’s a good idea, we could go together.’

‘As long as he won’t mind...’ 

She batted her eyelashes, and he laughed.

‘Maeve, you’re a treasure, you’re a love, you’re gorgeous. Just so not my type.’

‘That’s fine,’ she said with a wink. ‘It’s mutual.’

*

To his surprise, everything went more or less according to plan through the day; First Quarterers actually liking the afternoon session, some of them spending money in the shop, too; he had plenty of time to close up, get a bite to eat, to wash and shave and change and wait for Jonathan’s call.

Better yet, he was on time ringing, and Gethin’s tube took him to the meeting place without more than the usual hassle.

Jonathan was there already, smiling as Gethin emerged from the entrance to the station.

‘Been waiting long?’

‘Half a fag.’ Jonathan lifted a hand to show the glowing cigarette. ‘Nice pub just down here. You’d better just imagine I’m kissing you hello, though.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

The pub was busy, lively, new, neon lights and slick, sharp angles, a young clientele, couples, singles, young men sitting closer than was strictly necessary with nonchalant bravado. The jukebox was loud, punching out disco to which Jonathan hummed along while Gethin bought pints.

‘Bloody hell, that didn’t touch the sides!’ Gethin exclaimed as Jonathan downed it in two goes.

‘No, but it was nice, though.’ He winked. ‘In a bit of a hurry to get the weekend started, such as there is of it.’

‘Bad couple of days? I know you try not to get into it too much on the phone...’

‘Hard work.’ Jonathan caught the barman’s eye, got another round in even though Gethin had barely touched his pint yet. ‘The new role... what can I say? They love me in it. I just wish they wouldn’t say I’m a natural with quite so much pleasure... Shall we find a table? Been on my feet a lot today.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Heels, you know. Just to set a mood.’

They took their drinks over to a free table and sat down. 

‘So how were the First Quarterers?’ Jonathan asked when they were settled.

‘Loving the new time, their mums think it must all be very innocent, a nice group in a bookshop meeting in the afternoon, all tea and biscuits... of course, fact is, they roll up after a liquid lunch, some of them, and use it as a breather so they can sober up for the night session. Still, gives us the evening.’

Jonathan’s second pint was gone; Gethin didn’t comment, just went to the bar and got him another.

‘Thank you, Gethin-love. There is a plan...’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Yes. If I get drunk enough, I can put my arm round you on the way home and nobody will mind.’

‘You’re an actor, if you want a cuddle that bloody much, you can pretend to be drunk...’

‘True. But a hint of verisimilitude never hurts.’

‘How about we drink up and head back? There’s plenty of beer in the flat, or pubs local, if you want.’

‘Let’s have another first then go home.’

Home.

They got in – got home to the flat, home – just before the pubs started throwing out, and as soon as Gethin closed the street door behind him, Jonathan was there, arms around him, eager for a kiss. His mouthed tasted of old smoke and beer, of affection and promise, and Gethin savoured it.

‘Hello,’ Jonathan said, finally.

‘Hello yourself. Coming up?’

‘Definitely.’

Of course, the time went too quickly, just a night, but what a night, neither tiredness or alcohol getting in the way, and a day, but they spent it on each other, squandering half an hour in the bath on Sunday morning once the headaches had lifted a bit, music in the background over dinner, leaving the washing up 

‘I’ll need something to occupy me, when you’ve gone, and it’ll be a reminder that you were here,’ Gethin said.

‘Lucky you,’ Jonathan said, not quite joking. ‘You know, if you could bring yourself to risk sharing my single bed, you could come to me one night. Then I’d be able to remember you in my flat – I mean for more than that ten minutes last week...’

‘I’m not scared of your single bed; I’m sure I can trust you to protect me from any wayward springs...’

‘Great. Only I already know I won’t be able to escape midweek, so if you don’t mind, if you could come on Wednesday, meet me at the theatre, stay the night...?’

‘I can do that. Need to talk Maeve into opening the shop for me, but I think she’s enjoying the responsibility of having it to herself Thursday mornings... yes, that’s a plan, something to look forward to. Only – you say about keeping in character, will it not make that hard for you?’

‘Well, now I have two characters, it hardly matters any more, it’s impossible anyway... say you will, Gethin-love? It’d make it so much easier to get through the week...’

‘Then of course I will.’

 

‘Question is...’ Jonathan began as he was getting ready to leave, winding a multihued scarf around his neck and settling his beret over his random hair. ‘Are you going to kiss me goodbye here on the doorstep? Or walk me to the tube for the sake of another ten minutes... and all we can do is shake hands because they’re all staring?’

‘Could you get a later train? That way you get the kiss and the ten minutes?’

‘Twenty, this time of night. Half an hour, if I time it wrong.’

‘See, I want the time – and I want the kiss. But I know how far you have to go, now.’

‘And you’d have to walk back from the station alone, in the dark...’ Jonathan sighed. ‘Better say goodbye here, then.’

It was a kiss neither of them wanted to end, but it had to.

‘Still, not long until Wednesday,’ Gethin said. ‘And it’s not like we’re not busy people, time will go.’

‘Yes. And I better had, too. Goodnight, Gethin-love.’

Washing up, and cleaning up after Jonathan wasn’t nearly as much fun as dirtying plates and leaving splashes on the bathroom floor had been. But still, yes, each thing a reminder, a promise of next time.

Next time.

Wednesday, a world away.

Still, things to do, meantime.

He took the dress out of the dark and hung it on the back of his door again, made the bed, tidied the dressing table, stroking its smooth surface and remembering the silk of Jonathan’s skin, and tried to look forward to tomorrow.


	29. Sardines, Name That Tune, and Handshakes on the Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin stays over at Jonathan's, and finds an interesting shop on his way home...

‘Maeve, how would you feel about a promotion?’ Gethin asked before he went to his lunch.

‘What, me? What sort of promotion, the one where I get a fancy job title and no extra pay to go with it, just extra responsibility...?’

‘Assistant trainee manager, how’s that sound?’

‘And...?’

‘Yes, so it’s not so much of a pay rise, but there’ll be something. And the only extra responsibility would be openingtheshoponThursdaymornings...’

He said it in a rush and cleared his throat after it with a grin, making her laugh.

‘It sounds all right, actually!’

‘Well, we’re established a bit more now, doing okay, I think I can begin to delegate more – and you did say you wanted extra hours...’

‘I did. As long as not all of them are half eight starts...’

‘And can you start this week? This Thursday, I can talk you through the process as many times as you like before then...’

‘Yes, whatever... how hard can it be?’

‘Oh... unlock the door and lock it after you, pick up the post, switch on the till, sort out the float... make yourself a brew. I start at half eight because I like to get the stock out before I open, but it’s not vital.’

‘No, I think I can do eight-thirty, at least in the summer. Might be different coming up to Christmas, though. Still, that’s ages away.’

Ages away. But it still felt nearer than Wednesday, somehow.

*

Monday night, after the phone call from Jonathan, filled with a strange mingling of relief and happiness and despair and dread, he went to look at the dress again. Now his fear of it was fading, so too was his determination. He would, one day, wear it. Not tonight, though. Suddenly there didn’t seem the need, the urgency. 

But he laid the dress out on the bad next to him, a reminder of what he was working towards, and Jonathan’s pillow in his arms, a reminder of why it mattered, and Jonathan’s dressing table a solid, comforting presence in the room.

Tuesday morning brought a cheerful jangle of the bell and Peter breezed in. He looked taller than when Gethin had last seen him, perhaps a few years younger as well.

‘You look chipper,’ Gethin said. ‘I got your message that the flowers worked, then?’

‘Yes, all happy again. Who knew Ivan would cause so much trouble even by proxy? Anyway, all sorted out now and the entire garden is lovely.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘And what about your own self, Gethin dear? How is Jonathan?’

‘He’s busy, very busy with this play. But, yes, good, really.’

‘That’s lovely to hear. And I’ve managed to find a book to add to your scurrilous collection...’

Peter produced an extremely ancient volume with battered, threadbare boards and they both laughed at the title.

‘Nothing scurrilous about it, I’m sure, back in 1892 or whenever!’ Gethin said. ‘I’ll add it to the list.’

‘How’s the shop, keeping you busy?’

‘Pretty much, yes. Got one of the twice-monthlies in, half seven to half nine. Nice enough crowd, get a bit overexcited if you give them coffee, mind. Still, it passes the time.’

 

But not enough of it.

He began to realise that yes, as Jonathan had pointed out to him, he’d been filling up his life with the shop, which was fine at first, and before Jonathan had been on the scene. But now, with the few brief hours he wasn’t busy, he realised how much of a void Jonathan had filled and, of course, as he’d moved his commitments aside to make space for their blossoming relationship, suddenly Jonathan had extra rehearsals and spare time wasn’t such a good thing any more.

Gethin spent time with the dress, starting to feel a little absurd now, stroking the fabric, touching it. He even, just for ten minutes in the dark of the bedroom, away from the mirror, put it on without his jeans and tee shirt beneath. It didn’t feel so bad, not really.

But at the end of ten minutes, he was glad to take it off and remember it as Jonathan’s dress, not the one that had sent him into a blind panic.

Wednesday finally arrived, Gethin going through the opening routine once more with Maeve.

‘Yes, spare key here, got it, inside, lock up... post, till, float... don’t leave the key anywhere silly. Stock shelves if possible, otherwise leave the stock lists, emergency phone number. I can do this, Gethin, really I can.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Is it that you don’t trust me or that you’re scared to leave it in my hands in case I do it so well you don’t have an excuse not to give me more hours?’

‘Maeve, you’re a star. Off you go now, then. See you tomorrow, between twelve and one.’

‘Actually, if I’m here from half eight, shouldn’t I get the early lunch?’

‘Yes, of course, sorry... I’ll be in for half eleven, then.’

‘No! Joking! That’s the only thing with you, always so serious!’ She shrugged into her coat. ‘Hope the afternoon goes fast for you. See you tomorrow.’

The afternoon didn’t, nor did the down time between closing and the earliest he could possibly leave without turning up too early at the theatre. 

He judged it wrong anyway, and arrived at the end of the company’s tea break, sliding in as quietly as he could. 

But not so silently that he wasn’t seen, and recognised.

‘Jonathan? Isn’t that your Gethin?’ one of the actors said in a clear loud voice.

From beyond the tea urn a honey blond head poked out and grinned.

‘Fuck me, it is my Gethin! Hello, my Gethin!’

‘Evening, Jonathan...’

In one kite-like, swooping circuit of the hall, Jonathan picked up an untidy bundle of papers, found his outside clothes, slid his arm through Gethin’s and hurried him towards the door.

‘If Mr D asks,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘I’m going to rehearse at home. With my new voice coach. See you tomorrow, everybody.’

‘Not going to ask can you do that,’ Gethin said as Jonathan led the way out and along the street. ‘Just glad you did.’

‘Not half as glad as I am, Gethin-love! How clever of you to be early! Exactly when I was ready to strangle the Director – that’s Mr D, the politest of the names we have for him. Never mind, done for the night now.’

‘What about rehearsing?’

‘Sod that for a game of soldiers! No, I’ve been at it for ten hours, I need a break. And not to cook, do you fancy some chips? Little place round the corner...’

‘Chips would be good. Anything with them, fish, pie, sausage?’

‘Oh, I could just go a good sausage...’

‘I know the feeling.’

*

Jonathan’s room was cold and dark and smelled a little of damp, but the lights worked, and once they’d put on the one-bar electric fire and opened the warm paper packages, soon the place felt much cosier and smelled of chips instead, which was, Jonathan announced, a vast improvement.

They ate companionably on the sofa, washing the supper down with cheap lager and not caring, Jonathan asking Gethin about the shop, he answering and asking more open questions so there was no need for Jonathan to talk about the play unless he wanted to.

He seemed to want to, though. Not all the time, but grumbling on and off like a slightly dodgy appendix.

‘He’s adding stuff into the script now... just little things, mostly to annoy Pip – the other lead... borderline homophobic but trying hard not to be, it’s his upbringing, you know the sort, not exactly a good play for him... You want to see the script now, it looks like a tramp’s been sleeping under it...’ 

And, later...

‘That’s another thing... the wardrobe department, they’ve got no idea... nothing in my size for the second lead, and the one thing, the one piece... I can’t find it, terrified I’ve taken it to the mother’s... well, shouldn’t be talking about that...’

‘Jonathan! It’s fine, I told you... Just because I...’

Gethin fell silent, suddenly realising exactly what the one piece was that Jonathan couldn’t find – the dress currently lurking at the back of the wardrobe in the guest room.

Jonathan didn’t seem to notice, eager to get off the topic of his outfit.

‘No, no, enough about work. Another beer? And then shall we play Sardines ?’ He leaned in conspiratorially, breathed against Gethin’s neck. ‘Or how about ‘Name That Tune’...?’

*

In the morning, familiar topic of conversation, different location. Jonathan clung. Gethin held tight.

‘See, I’m going to be in for the high jump for running away last night; I’d rather not inflict Mr D’s choice language on you this early in the day...’ 

Gethin nodded.

‘But, of course, the theatre is on your way home, partly,’ Jonathan added. ‘So...’

‘So proper goodbyes here, handshakes on the corner.’ Gethin nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘I knew you’d understand, you are a sweetheart, Gethin-love.’

‘Well. Wouldn’t do it for just anybody, you know, Jonathan-cariad.’

‘Been meaning to ask...’

‘Term of endearment.’ Gethin shrugged. ‘Sweetheart, darling... something like that.’

‘I like it.’ Jonathan smiled and hugged Gethin tight. ‘One last kiss and off we go. Think we can hold hands down the street, if you like. To the corner.’

To the corner, holding hands, the street empty except for the two of them, and a thin, drizzly rain. Shaking hands.

‘Saturday, Gethin-love.’

‘Saturday, Jonathan-cariad.’

Walking off in different directions.

Feeling the pit of his stomach fall away as he turned back and saw Jonathan had stopped and been watching him walk off, saw the drooped shoulders straighten as he waved, trying to be cheery.

Waving back, swallowing, wishing it was the weekend.

Continuing on to the station with blurry eyes.

Pulling himself together with a huge effort and realising, as he got off the first train, that it was only quarter past ten, he’d got ages yet before he had to be back at the shop, Gethin decided to leave the station where he should have changed lines for a bit of fresh air, a change of scenery; he could always walk to the next station along.

He remembered how surprised he’d been when he first came to London. Naïve, perhaps. Thinking it would be all Buckingham Palace and Houses of Parliament, finding instead it was just like anywhere else, a bit dirtier, slummier, harsher, perhaps, but basically just a place where people lived and worked and loved and died.

And shopped, of course.

This bit of the city reminded him of his own corner, a few clustered streets of retail and cafes, flats above. Here and there a junk shop, heaving with second-hand tat.

Something caught his eye, though, something cheap and blowsy and sparkly and just begging to be pinned to Jonathan’s coat, perhaps to his beret, a large brooch shaped like a tied ribbon set in gold coloured metal and with large white paste mock-diamonds set along its length, a huge cheap stone in the middle. It was, quite literally, pennies, and he wandered inside.

A bell jangled brightly and he looked around. Heaps of clothes, some on rails, more in boxes and baskets. Large, dark pieces of furniture, old sideboards, drop-leafed tables. Books and old singles and albums. Incomplete tea sets and old brass ornaments.

‘Just looking?’ a voice said, a woman with a downturned mouth and wispy hair, one of those gingham nylon overalls favoured by cleaning ladies giving her something of an air of authority.

‘Er... yeah. There’s a brooch in your window...’

‘Let’s have a look, then.’

She moved passed him to stretch over the backboard of the window display to grab it, hobbling back to her place behind the counter with the brooch.

‘Anything else?’

‘Can I have a look at the clothes, there?’ Gethin asked, drawn by what looked like a 1960s mini dress in bright yellow... he vaguely remembered Aunty Dilys in something similar, more modest colour perhaps.

‘Help yourself. Fancy dress, is it?’

There was an enquiring note, as if the brooch had already made her suspicious.

‘Amateur dramatics,’ he said. ‘They told me to look out for a few different things...’

‘You can have three for two,’ she said. ‘Cheapest thing free.’

He nodded and began to rummage. The yellow mini dress he set to one side, found a much longer, much larger dress straight from the fifties, shirt-waisted, button-through, charcoal and white geometric, cotton. Might it do for Jonathan’s other role? Certainly it was a good idea to take different sizes, might stop the shopkeeper eyeing him up like that... There was a dark green skirt suit, too, also dated, with a wide collar and covered buttons.

‘Three quid the lot,’ the woman said. ‘You do know these are different sizes?’

‘Er – yes, different actors. Actresses. Is that with the brooch?’

*

‘How’d you get on?’ he asked Maeve as he walked through the door at just on twelve.

‘Great, no problems, post’s on the side there. Yes, I could do that every week if you needed me to.’

‘Might just take you up on that, thanks.’

‘What have you been buying?’ Maeve asked, curious about the jumble of fabric in the big plastic bag Gethin had set down by the till. ‘Fancy dress costumes?’

‘No – Jonathan was saying their wardrobe had no costumes for him...’

‘But... there’s a dress in there...’

‘Yes, he’s stuck with one of those modern directors... I’ll just take these up to the flat...’

Really, though, he wasn’t quite sure himself what had come over him. The fifties dress, that was for Jonathan, yes, to make secret amends for the other dress hiding in the wardrobe... but the other two wouldn’t go near him, broad-shouldered and tall as he was...

But somewhere at the back of his mind, Gethin had the thought that maybe, if it wasn’t the same dress, it might be easier to face up to whatever had panicked him.

*

By Friday night he was ready, the green skirt suit back from the cleaner’s (because it had smelled and even he knew washing wool was an art), the shop was shut and Jonathan had called with many blown kisses and promises of tomorrow night, same as last week, a drink out and then back to the flat; all was as well with Gethin’s world as it was likely to be without Jonathan actually being there, and that was just too risky – if it went wrong again...

A drink to steady himself, not much, a nip of the vodka he kept for emergencies and he made his preparations.

Make-up first. He was getting to understand the rituals of it now, almost to like it, the sense that you could somehow change your perceptions, and other people’s, just by adding a few highlights and dabs of colour to your face. Gave him confidence, in a funny sort of way, perhaps because he was okay with it, had always been okay with make-up.

Dress next.

He covered the dressing table mirror, not wanting to catch an accidental glimpse before he was ready, and set the little boudoir chair up in front of the mirrored wardrobe door in the guest room before going back and changing into the skirt suit, which he put on over his own underwear. Perhaps he should have had a shirt or something too, it itched...

But the itching took his mind off what he was doing, and he was soon zipped and buttoned in; it felt a bit odd around the waist, and loose at the top, but seemed to fit reasonably well elsewhere.

Didn’t feel so bad, not really.

The next thing would be the tricky bit, though, making his way through and sitting down before looking in the mirror... better wait a bit.

Bit longer maybe.

Had he prepared enough? What about tomorrow, first thing...?

No; this had gone on long enough. Jonathan would be here tomorrow, he’d got that to look forward to, get this out of the way now, tonight.

He was going to be fine, he just knew it.

Walking into the guest room making sure he only looked at his feet and not at the mirror was difficult. He could see the dark green of the suit as he looked down, of course, and that was all right. 

Found his way to the stool and sat down, closing his eyes just in case.

Lifting his head, taking a breath and feeling his heartbeat already ratchetting up stupidly fast.

Just a bit of cloth, old cloth at that.

It took all his courage to open his eyes and look...

 

...and suddenly he was hanging on to seat of the boudoir chair as if it was the only thing holding him up. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t planned enough for this, it was too much, and...

No. Gethin closed his eyes and made himself focus on breathing. He could get out of the room. He could just shuck off the dress, it would be gone, nothing to worry about.

Or he could look again, and try and see beyond the panic.

Slow. Breathe slow, easy, it’s just you, just Gethin in a skirt suit.

Steadying himself, reminding himself he could back away any time, Gethin looked at his reflection. It was both harder to look at himself in this than in the other dress and easier at the same...

_The state of you!_

The thought interrupted him, seeming to come from a different part of his mind: _look at the state of you, your hair not brushed, and all that muck on your face! Well, come along, haven’t got all day..._

Gethin glanced down, somehow ashamed, smoothed his hair.

‘Is that better?’ he murmured, heard that inner voice again.

_It’ll do, it will have to, never tidy, not really... one of these days..._

And then he realised, his jaw dropping, as he looked properly in the mirror and saw things he couldn’t possibly be seeing, saw through the dress and into the heart of the problem...

Except he wasn’t seeing them, of course. Imagination, powerful thing.

Needed to think about this a bit.

More than a bit.

Duw, this was the last thing he’d expected...


	30. Undertones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the weekend doesn't quite go to plan...

The first thing Gethin did on Saturday morning was hang the yellow mini dress and the green skirt suit up in his wardrobe behind his other clothes. 

He steeled himself as he touched the green wool fabric, afraid of hearing the voice in his head again; it had been echoing through his fitful night’s sleep, shrill and scolding through his dreams.

Closing the door on the dresses, he told himself he was closing his mind to the voice, shutting it away to deal with later, when he had time, and courage, to explore in tentative steps the full implications of it.

But not now. Not in the brightness of morning; it was time to set the things of the night aside and get on with the day.

Bit of time left before breakfast and work. And he knew exactly what would put a smile on his face; doing something for Jonathan.

Getting out the oversized glitzy brooch did, indeed, lighten his mood; he put it, with the freshly laundered fifties dress, and Jonathan’s frock from the wardrobe, in a carrier he could slip inside Jonathan’s overnight bag at some point during his visit. 

During the slow moments of the morning, and over his lunch break, he wrote a note, having decided it would be too dramatic to hand the parcel over tonight or tomorrow, too embarrassing to admit the blue-green dress had been there all the time; it might look odd, perhaps. Suspicious, even.

_‘Saw this and thought your coat needed a bit of a zhuzh,’ he wrote. ‘Found the little blue number on the floor of my wardrobe, it isn’t at your mother’s waiting to jump out of the closet at her. And I thought the other one might be good for your Gloria. Hope finding this cheers you up when you get home. X’_

*

‘You’re in a happy place tonight,’ Jonathan said, grinning as they walked from the last pub of the night to Gethin’s flat. ‘Every time I look at you, this little secret smile...’

‘Well, not so secret. I am happy, out with you.’ And the thought, of course, of Jonathan getting home on Sunday night, unpacking to find the brooch, the clothes... ‘But you’re in a good mood, too, I hope?’

‘End of the week, of course. Just one week rehearsals and then we go live, darling! Three weeks and it will all be over... until the next time!’

‘Well, it’s been interesting, that’s for sure... Want something to eat on the way home? Or wait until home?’

‘Full of lager, don’t need food. Not yet. Just you. You’re enough.’

‘Just me it is, then. And you, of course.’

Gethin, and Jonathan, Jonathan and Gethin, together at the end of the evening, early hours of the night, first thing in the morning. Enough, more than enough. Plenty, in fact, Gethin thought, trying to make biscuit sandwiches with Jonathan nuzzling his neck, pressing against his back next day.

But always room for more, he thought, smiling as Jonathan’s profile against him became even more interesting...

‘This is great,’ Jonathan said, lazing on the sofa in the middle of the afternoon, his arm around Gethin in easy affection, music spilling softly from the record deck. ‘Just what I need, a little oasis of calm and an armful of Gethin... I don’t mind admitting, I got some flack on Thursday, got to be on my best behaviour now... starting to wind up, to feel it’s really going to happen, this thing... this is where the nerves get you, when you’re in the last throes of prep, and you know you know your lines, but you wake in a sweat in the dark, dreaming your mind went blank, the words on the script changing every time you look at them... still, not much longer, eh? Are you going to come and see me?’

‘Course I am. If you don’t mind.’

‘Mind? No, it’ll be lovely! Bring Maeve, too. I’ll see you get tickets.’

Perhaps the mood of the day was too lazy, too easy, perhaps it was just too tempting to assume everything was fine, because, on the surface, it was. 

But there were Jonathan’s last-week-of-rehearsals nerves, a reminder of his fragility, his over-excitability and insecurity, and there was a green skirt suit in Gethin’s wardrobe that Jonathan didn’t know about, and while a part of him desperately wanted to say, ‘Jonathan, I did this, I wore it, it’s okay, it wasn’t the dress after all, I knew it, but I couldn’t prove it...’

But the risk was that Jonathan would want to know what it had been about, and Gethin needed time to work it out for himself, and the... no, it wasn’t deceit, it was just waiting, not-yet-sharing, but it was that not-sharing that was hard, and especially because Gethin wasn’t used to having someone to share with. 

That was why the dress (now snugly tucked away in Jonathan’s overnight bag, put there when he was singing into the mirror while pretending to shave, for him to find in private) a little push towards knowing Gethin was okay with the cross-dressing, mostly.

So there were definite undertones, if you’d looked for them.

It shouldn’t have been such a surprise, really.

And maybe any other day, any other moment, it might have been different.

It almost was, anyway.

Evening, getting dark out, last cuddle, Jonathan getting out of bed and reaching for his clothes while Gethin dressed, smiling and rapping his knuckles on the dressing table.

‘I see you’ve been keeping the old teak polished up for me.’

‘It’s been no trouble, I quite like it,’ Gethin said, laying a hand on the corner of the dressing table. ‘Bit like having you here, in a way. Company for me; you said, it’s got...’

‘You needn’t have bothered, the mother’s capitulated, I can borrow the bus, well, steal it next week, get it out of your way...’

‘...your soul in it, no, don’t do that...’

‘...taking up space, intruding on your...’

‘...Jonathan, no, don’t...’

‘...start emptying it now if you...’

‘Don’t, Jonathan!’

It was as close as Gethin had ever come to raising his voice in Jonathan’s presence, the tone he used for belligerent customers, stern and lower than his usual speaking tone. It made Jonathan stare at him as Gethin found himself grabbing at the edges of the dressing table as if Jonathan was going to carry it off there and then.

‘Please, don’t take it, it’s not in the way, no trouble, really...’

‘Fuck’s sake, Gethin, what’s this about? It’s my sodding dressing table!’

‘I know, but it’s... it matters, Jonathan, while it’s here, I know you’ll come back, that you haven’t moved out yet...’

‘We’ve been through this; I hadn’t moved in, I was just... you were kind... I said, not moving out... Christ’s sake, Geth, I can’t cope with this now, not with what I’m dealing with at the moment...’

‘And you’re the only one with things going on, are you? You think I’m not dealing with stuff of my own?’

‘Well, how the fuck am I supposed to know that if you don’t say?’

‘I don’t say because you’ve got all your stuff and I’m trying to be supportive. Besides, it’s what you do, share, what I do is internalize until it all goes away...’

‘Except it hasn’t gone away, has it?’ Jonathan sighed. ‘Gethin, love, we’re not going to split up over a bloody dressing table...’

‘What are we going to split up about, then, Jonathan? You wanting to wear a dress but not letting yourself, even though I told you, I keep telling you, it’s all right? Duw, what’s the point of talking to you if you don’t listen?’

‘I listened,’ Jonathan said. ‘Just didn’t believe what I was hearing on the basis of the evidence... Christ, Gethin! I really can’t do this right now. And I don’t think you can, either...’

‘What are you saying? Jonathan?’

‘I’m saying, we’re too good together to let this happen to us. Keep the damn dressing table, Gethin-love. I’ll see you after the end of the run.’

‘...No...!’

‘We’re not splitting up, you’re still my boyfriend, but I can’t do this. This is how it always starts, Gethin; a misunderstanding, I yell, you yell, we yell, we fall apart... I don’t want that with you, I love you too much.’ Jonathan glanced around the room, collecting wayward bits of clothing, talking as he went. ‘I’m not going to lose you, not because of a stupid play! Look, I’ll be in touch, just think of it as though I’m working away.’

‘...Jonathan... please...’

Jonathan reached out to squeeze Gethin’s shoulder, his eyes dark with love and anguish.

‘Sorry, love, but I can’t cope right now; I’m scared, Geth, scared if I don’t back off we’ll have a row and I don’t want us to split up about a sodding dressing table of all things... look, I will, really, I’ll see you after the production ends. I’d rather you didn’t call... I’ll get enough of a ribbing as it is...’

Down the stairs, he grabbed his coat and hat and scarf, rummaged in his pockets, and Gethin watched in dismay as he took off the spare keys to the flat.

‘Only because it’s too much temptation. And so you know I won’t come sneaking in while you’re at work and steal my dressing table.’

He said the last with an attempt at a smile, showing it was a joke, but it really wasn’t funny.

‘All right,’ Gethin said. ‘Working away. Three weeks. Right.’

‘Right. Better go.’

Jonathan slung his overnight bag on his shoulder and took the last flight of stairs at a run, trying to get out of the flat before Gethin could catch him up, but at the bottom of the flight he paused, leaned in almost as if for a kiss before backing away, shaking his head and his eyes glittering.

‘I can’t; it hurts too much. I’m sorry, so sorry... See you in a few weeks, Gethin-love.’

‘Take care of yourself, Jonathan-cariad,’ Gethin said, a whisper.

Jonathan shrugged and shook his head, backing out of the doorway.

‘I’ll do my best,’ he said.


	31. The Twelfth Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin tries to adjust, and a parcel arrives.

Gethin stared down the street long after Jonathan had turned the corner.

He’d gone.

Jonathan, he’d really gone. Left his keys.

And his dressing table, though. He’d said, ‘I love you’, that he didn’t want to break up.

But he’d still gone.

Three weeks.

Three weeks, when the time between Thursday morning and Saturday night had felt like forever?

How the hell was he going to get through that, alone?

Hadn’t split up, though. Still boyfriends, just... like he was working away.

Except... if your boyfriend’s working away, you should be allowed to ring him, right?

Cold, in the doorway, the wind blowing.

Gethin shivered, shutting and locking the street door and going back up to the flat with reluctant feet. So very empty without Jonathan, with weeks ahead without Jonathan...

Compartmentalise, internalise, that was what he did, how he coped. 

Well, how he claimed to cope.

Anyway, Jonathan would get back to his digs, unpack, find the dresses and the brooch... couldn’t just leave it, could he? He’d want to ring, say thank you, at least...

Wouldn’t he?

Except the phone didn’t ring and finally Gethin gave up and went to bed, to lie staring through the darkness at the shape of the dressing table, holding Jonathan’s pillow close, and hoping that as time passed he would feel better.

*

It hadn’t happened by the time Maeve arrived on Monday, though.

‘Gethin! What’s happened?’ she asked, staring at his sleep-deprived face.

‘You know how you said Jonathan’s like... like a kite?’

‘Yes?’

‘Dropped the string.’ He shrugged, tried to smile. ‘We’ve not split up, or anything, just... until the play’s over. That’s all. Feels a bit odd. But they start, Saturday. Not long really, three weeks.’

Maeve raised her eyebrows.

‘Yeah, so, it’s three weeks. I can do three weeks.’

‘Of course you can. But without scaring the customers...?’

‘Do I look that bad?’

‘I’m going to make you a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘Try not to look at anyone until I come back.’

It made him smile, a little, and when Maeve came back, she nodded.

‘That’s a bit better. So what exactly...?’

‘You know actors, superstitious. Because his other relationships failed when he was working up to a show, this way, we don’t see each other, we can’t split up, I suppose.’

‘That’s a bit extreme, isn’t it?’

‘What he wanted; seemed like the best way, at least we’ve got a chance. Only three weeks...’

‘Yes, well. Keep reminding yourself. Only one thing,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t he going to do the announcing at our book title thing?’

‘Yes, he was...’ Gethin shook his head, checked the calendar. ‘Damn, it’s the last night of the production, that Friday... we’ll just have to muddle through, I suppose.’ 

*

And that just about summed it up, the first week; muddling through. Getting used to no phone calls, no visits. Using his Thursday morning off just to get away from the shop, go somewhere they hadn’t been together. Coming back to be quietly cheerful in front of Maeve, going back up to the flat at the end of the working day, falling into the routine he’d had before Jonathan... Thursday night, a group in, Friday, a vast stretch of time, empty and heart-breaking. First Quarterers group on Saturday afternoon, he did his duty and mentioned the play’s opening night, nodding towards the handbill he’d stuck on the noticeboard for Jonathan weeks before.

‘Promises to be good,’ he said. ‘Get yourselves along one night.’

‘Are you going?’ someone asked.

‘Yeah, you’ve got a thing going with Jonathan Blake, haven’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said, not sure which question he was answering. ‘Not sure when I’ll go yet. Bit difficult with all you lot in the shop every night...’

Sunday was the worst.

So used to having Jonathan there, he spent the day half-expecting him to turn up, and then remembering, realising with disappointment like gall that it wasn’t going to happen, forgetting again, repeating the process...

And in and around and behind all this, there was a green skirt suit hanging in his wardrobe. It held no fear for him now, missing Jonathan so much that anything else was minor. He’d get it out, put it on, not caring any more what his reflection looked like, instead listening to the internal monologue, dealing with it, processing, moving into a fuller understanding.

It should have been a breakthrough; but now it was just something to do to stop him missing Jonathan quite so much...

*

Almost in the middle of the hiatus, ten days or so after Gethin had watched Jonathan walk away, a parcel arrived with his name on it. Recognising the handwriting, he tightened his grip on it, could hardly wait until he was alone in the shop to rip open the brown paper. Inside...

A copy of ‘Twelfth Night’, and tucked into the cover two tickets for Jonathan’s play, dated for the following Wednesday, and a note: _‘I know you don’t have a group on Wednesdays, please come to the show, bring Maeve, I miss you. J’_

‘What do you reckon?’ he asked her, showing her the tickets, if not the note. ‘Want to come see a show with me next week?’

‘Sounds like just the thing,’ she said. ‘Best seats in the house, too!’

‘Yes, not sure I like that... bit visible, if you ask me.’

‘Isn’t that the point? He wants you there, he wants to know where to look for you.’

‘Well... suppose so. Just I’ve never liked being front and centre.’

A solution presented itself when Peter turned up Friday, late morning; Gethin was with a customer and so had to half-listen in as Maeve expounded on how much she was looking forward to seeing Jonathan’s play with Gethin and was Peter going?

By the time Gethin had sorted out the customer, run the book through the till and was free to say hello, Maeve and Peter seemed to have the workings of a plan sorted out.

‘So, Gethin, Maeve thinks Gordon and I would love Jonathan’s play and we’re going to double date you two on Wednesday...’

‘Oh, we are? I mean, we are...’

‘And Maeve was saying you didn’t like your seats...?’

‘Well...’

‘So, how about, if I see whether we can get two together on your row, or the one behind...’

‘I suppose...’

‘That’s settled, then. I’ll ring and let you know how we get on. So, I’d heard a story that something was rotten in the state of Denmark...?’

‘Couldn’t tell you... Ivan was from the Netherlands after all, wasn’t he? What’s Denmark got to do with it...?’

‘I meant, Gethin, dear, things with you and the luscious Leading Man... or is that Leading Lady...?’

‘Jonathan’s doing the two roles on different nights,’ Gethin said quietly to Maeve. ‘Impresses the hell out of the critics.’

‘Oh, I wonder which we’ll get?’ she said. ‘Still, it’ll be a nice surprise, I’m sure.’

‘A surprise, certainly,’ Gethin said.

*

The thought of seeing Jonathan again lifted Gethin’s spirits over the weekend. It did occur to him that Jonathan was breaking his own rules – the play wouldn’t be over until the Friday following the Wednesday show, after all – or perhaps it was near enough to the end of the run, in Jonathan’s eyes, to be thinking about the time beyond...

It seemed unfair; as hard as it had been, Gethin hadn’t been the one sending stuff through the post... if he’d known Jonathan would send him a parcel, that he’d see him before the end of the three-week break, it would have been so much easier to cope...

Although...

He’d sent that brooch, the dresses home with Jonathan. True, he hadn’t known, when he’d put them in Jonathan’s overnight bag, that they’d be agreeing not to see each other for a while. So had he broken the rules first? No, he was being daft, there hadn’t been rules at that point.

Anyway.

Wednesday evening, Gethin and Maeve waited for Peter and Gordon at the station where he’d previously met Jonathan; it seemed wrong, somehow, to be there with someone else, even if it was Maeve, and waiting for someone else, even if it was an established couple...

‘Gethin, dear!’ Peter’s cultured voice, air kisses all around, ignoring the looks of other travellers. ‘I was able to get seats for the row behind you, slightly to the left , about as good as it gets... for a small production, it seems to have been doing well for itself, have you seen any of the reviews?’

‘Managed to miss those,’ Gethin said, nodding a greeting to Gordon in the background. ‘Don’t want to colour my expectations too much.’

‘Well, it’s gone down a storm, there’s even talk of extending the run, taking it somewhere else...’

‘Great,’ Gethin said, worried it might mean longer without seeing Jonathan but trying not to mind if it did. ‘As long as he’s doing well, that’s what matters.’

Maeve linked arms with him, ‘Just for the look of things,’ she said, and he led the way through the streets towards the theatre; they were in good time, but Gethin slowed their steps as he got near the street with Jonathan’s digs, glancing along it, even though he knew all the actors would have been at the theatre for at least an hour already...

‘Down there, one of the tall houses, that’s where his digs are,’ he told Maeve.

‘You have missed him, haven’t you?’ she said softly. ‘Looking forward to this?’

‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘Seen him rehearsing, not actually acting, though.’

Gethin felt almost furtive as he entered the theatre, had his and Maeve’s tickets checked and waited to swap with Gordon and Peter. He made sure he was on the outer seat, furthest away from the centre, and settled back to watch the show.

One programme, two cast lists and a line to say that on even dates, the part of Fly Boy would be played by Pip someone, and Gloria by Jonathan Blake...

‘Oh, wow!’ Maeve said excitedly. ‘It’ll be real acting, then!’

‘Yes... real acting...’

It was fair to say Gethin didn’t follow the plot, the adventures of a flying ace and his chums after the war; he was more interested in following Jonathan in his role as Gloria, wearing a familiar charcoal geometric fifties dress, fake pearls, and a huge, glittery brooch in the shape of a tied bow. 

Deliberately over-made up, in teetering heels to emphasise the difference in height between Gloria and the diminutive Fly Boy ace, hamming it up at every turn and seeming to stare into the audience rather more than was necessary, Jonathan was magnificent, every gesture elegant and flirty, every word beautifully enunciated, and Gethin found a stupid grin on his face that had nothing to do with the comedy. Jonathan was there, he was okay, word-prefect... no, just perfect...

It was in Act Two that it happened, towards the end. Thing seemed to be going well for the Fly Boy, misunderstanding with his ‘girl’ almost sorted out, and the scene was leading towards them kissing and making up...

Suddenly, in what seemed to be an unrehearsed move, Jonathan dropped the Gloria voice and held his hands up, backing away from the leading man.

‘Now, hold on a minute,’ he said in a deeper-than-usual, butcher-than-usual voice. ‘Need to get something straight before we do any of that soppy stuff...’

‘What?’ Pip, as Fly Boy, demanded.

‘Need to ask my boyfriend if kissing you counts as cheating...’ Jonathan lifted a hand to cue someone off stage, and a spotlight swooped down...

_...Duw! Jonathan’d only gone and made him part of the act..._

The spot came to rest on the seats holding Gordon and Peter.

‘Well, Gethin-love...’ Jonathan’s face fell and he stared, motioning the spot to circle. ‘You’re not my Gethin, either of you...’

He looked devastated and without thinking, Gethin got to his feet and took a breath.

‘Here,’ he shouted. ‘I’m here! And no, it’s not cheating if it’s in the script. As long as neither of you are bloody enjoying it!’

‘Well, I don’t know about him, but I certainly wasn’t going to...’ Jonathan said, recovering quickly and primping his hair. ‘Ladies and Gentleman, a big hand, and you’ll need one, for a very good sport... Gethin Roberts, book shop proprietor extraordinaire...’

Applause, and Gethin sat down hastily, blushing now, glad the spot was off him.

‘Well done, you!’ Maeve said. ‘Did you see his face when you weren’t in your seat? Poor thing! Mind you, he looks happy enough now...’

On the stage, Fly Boy and Gloria air-kissed, and Jonathan stage whispered behind his hand to the audience in general and Gethin in particular: ‘No. Didn’t enjoy it.’ It got a laugh and a round of applause, and Gethin went through the rest of the show with a grin on his face so wide his cheeks ached by the end of the show.

After the applause had died down, the cast had taken their curtain calls and left the stage, the house lights came up and people began to disperse. Being near the centre of the row, it was a few minutes before Gethin and Maeve could get out and regroup with Gordon and Peter.

‘Look at you, star of the show!’ Peter said. ‘You might have warned us.’

‘I’d no idea,’ Gethin said. ‘Good performance though, wasn’t it?’

Peter and Gordon exchanged glances.

‘You obviously don’t go to many of these things,’ Gordon said.

‘Well, no... but it was still a good show... wasn’t it?’

‘It was smashing,’ Maeve said firmly, glaring at Gordon. ‘Gethin... there’s a chap waving at you...’

‘Is there? Where? Oh, right. That’s Trevor, has digs in the same house as Jonathan...’ He went across. ‘Great show, compliments to the cast...’

‘Our Leading Lady requests the honour and all that,’ Trevor said. ‘This way, come on.’

With a glance over his shoulders at the others, Gethin followed Trevor through several narrow corridors to a room with several mirrors and chairs, all occupied by actors in the throes of removing their make-up. From a corner, Jonathan waved.

‘It’s my Gethin! Hello, Gethin-love!’

Duw, everyone pausing to call hello, everyone looking... and, Heaven help him, Maeve, Gordon and Peter following. Distantly, he thought he heard Maeve complimenting the Leading Man, and then Jonathan, half his face clean, the other still smeary, grinning.

‘Thank you for coming. But, fuck me! When you weren’t in your seat...’

‘You know me, never did like the limelight...’

‘True, true.’ Jonathan leaned an arm over the back of his chair, and the sweet, fond smile was back. ‘Sight for sore eyes you are, Geth. And... thank you. I didn’t get chance to say, things got...weird. The brooch, and the outfit.’ He paused to indicate the dress. ‘Very clever of you, just the thing. And... well, you know.’

Yes, Gethin nodded, he knew.

‘It’s okay, you know,’ he said. ‘Really.’

‘You know, after tonight...’ Jonathan cleared his throat. ‘And there’s darling Maeve, chatting up our Pip. Do him the world of good, an admirer. Not blessed in the height department, got this idea in his head women don’t go for that. Think it’s why he’s an actor, he looks taller on the stage...’

There was a little silence while Jonathan pretended to be taking off more of the make-up, but really looking at Gethin’s reflection in the mirror. Gethin smiled.

‘Looks like we’ve been offered another run,’ Jonathan said. ‘Few days off and then – if it all goes well – little place in Islington for two weeks... it’ll mean a change of digs...’

‘Not all that far from my place,’ Gethin said quickly. ‘If you don’t fancy that.’

‘Gethin, love, that’s really sweet of you...’

‘No need to say now. Two more nights here, then?’

‘Yes, I have one more go as Gloria... you know, if you could come back on Friday, we could do that little inset again...’

‘I can’t, cariad,’ Gethin said quietly. ‘It’s the book title contest Friday. Bit of an evening happening.’

‘The... Oh, fuck, and I said I’d compere it for you! I’m sorry; I thought it was the Saturday or...’

‘Don’t worry about it; Maeve and I will cope. Let you know if your book wins.’

‘I’m free Saturday... if you’re not busy... could I ring you?’

Yes, Duw, yes...!

‘If you like, of course you can.’

Jonathan turned to smile at him again.

‘Er... Gethin...?’ Peter said from the far side of the room. ‘Do you know the way back to the station?’

‘Yes, sorry...’ Gethin turned back to Jonathan with a shrug. ‘Sorry, have to go. Need to get Maeve back home safe, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Jonathan reached out to shake hands with him. ‘Like on the corner, remember?’

‘I remember.’

‘And thank you for coming. I’ll call you. I really will.’

‘I’ll look forward to it.’

‘Gethin!’ Peter and Gordon chorused.

‘Goodnight, Geth-love.’

‘Jonathan-cariad, don’t forget to call.’


	32. The Scandalous Book Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the winners of the contest are announced in style...

Gethin was walking on air all the way down to the station. He’d got his kite back. Granted, it had the longest string in the world, stretching all the way to Saturday, but...

‘Give him a nudge for me, will you, Maeve?’ Peter said loudly, and Maeve giggled, and squeezed Gethin’s arm.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘I was asking if you wanted to stop off for a drink on the way home? Both of you, of course?’

‘It’s very kind,’ Gethin began. ‘Maeve? I can open up the shop tomorrow, if you like, save you an early start, I’ll take the afternoon instead of the morning off?’

‘Oh, okay. That’d be lovely. Just a quick one, then.’

‘I know a couple of nice pubs where we change trains,’ Gethin said.

‘Ooh, get you, man about town!’

‘Are you two coming to the book party on Friday night?’ Maeve asked as they were sat with drinks. ‘We’ve got a nice selection of titles now, and voting forms and everything.’

‘Have we?’ Gethin asked.

‘Well, we will have by tomorrow afternoon... first round of voting begins at eight, so get along before then if you want a browse.’

Gordon and Peter stayed on in the pub and Gethin saw Maeve to her train before making his own way home, happiness mingling with a sweet, soft sorrow... lovely to see Jonathan, to talk to him, to know he wanted to try...

Because that was it, he had been trying, hadn’t he? Walking away rather than rowing, backing off instead of facing off... and, presumably, he’d done the rehearsing, he knew the stuff now, it wouldn’t be so much pressure, would it?

And he’d liked the brooch, the dress fitted, he knew Gethin had been thinking of him, hopefully that it meant he was okay with the dresses...

Didn’t know how okay though, did he?

Gethin smiled to himself as he got in, locked up, went upstairs. So the morning would go quickly, opening up, sorting out, waiting for Maeve, and the afternoon... he’d take himself off somewhere, book shops, perhaps, or – better idea – tidy up the flat, proper cleaning, change the bed, polish the dressing table...

In the finish, he was wrong and he was right. Thursday morning, even with him opening up, dragged, the afternoon was wet and cold for April, so going out was less appealing, but cleaning didn’t really do it for him either... still, it was a day nearer to Saturday, and the phone call he was now desperately waiting for.

Friday to get through first, of course. So much to do ahead of the book party, the list of who donated which book to be updated and retyped, anonymous voting forms to prepare, the back room to clear, and – now Jonathan wasn’t coming to compere the evening – he had to decide what he’d say, perhaps jot down a few notes, bit of a speech, Duw, no... maybe he could get Maeve to do that bit?

He was expecting probably around twenty or thirty people – one for each book donated, and a friend, he thought, give or take. The books in question were on a shelf of their own in the back room, lined up in proper order, alphabetical by author, just as in the rest of the shop.

Refreshments to get in, too. It was going to cost a fortune, this contest, and not even as if he could charge entry for it... couple of boxes of wine, never the best quality, but cheap that way, and if it wasn’t good, they wouldn’t be drinking it so fast, would they? Same with the beer, cheapest he could find, gut-rot cider, plastic glasses, a few soft drinks, not that he expected anyone would want lemonade...

He went to buy the refreshments in his lunch break, two trips, asked Maeve, very nicely, if she could get back early to help out, and was relieved to lock up at five and take twenty minutes to eat and grab a coffee before hitting the ground running with the rest of the preparations.

Once everything was as ready as it could be, and greatly daring, he applied a lick of eyeliner and a brush of mascara before changing his jeans and shirt ready for the evening. Maeve might notice, but she’d been around the shop long enough to see more extreme cosmetics than his.

She arrived at just before seven, stared at him and shook her head.

‘Wish I could get mine on that steady,’ she said. ‘I always go wobbly. And, my God, your eyelashes are just amazing...’

And that was it; no shrieks and giggles, no disapproval, nothing except mild envy.

‘I brace my elbow on the dressing table and steady my hand that way,’ he said.

‘Great, thanks, I’ll remember that. So what’s first, then?’

‘Er... can you check all the cards sound right for each book? And do you think we should read out the actual contents after the titles, so they get the idea?’

‘Maybe. If they’re sharp enough... Gethin, I don’t see this one on the list anywhere...?’

‘Which?’

Maeve held up a copy of a children’s book at him. 

‘That one’s not in the competition; it was going to be a special presentation to Jonathan for compering us. I’ll have to set it aside for later.’

‘Birthday present, perhaps. You won’t have to wait long, he’s got to be a Leo, hair and eyes like that.’

‘Well. Better put it away so it doesn’t get mixed up with the entries. Right, I think we’re ready. Not sure when we’ll get any guests, though...’

Or even if, he thought. Of course, if he’d said, ‘free drinks’...

He needn’t have worried. Twenty past seven, a rattle at the door and the first guests arrived. Maeve appointed herself in charge of the bar the better to ration the drinks, and Gethin was left to mingle and greet the arrivals.

Peter and Gordon were amongst the earliest to arrive.

‘Well, we’ve come in support of “Joyful Lays”, since Gordon found it. Oh, and look, “Flashes From the Welsh Pulpit”, that sounds like quite a church outing, doesn’t it?’

‘Nice to see you, get a drink, there are voting forms on the table...’

Familiar faces from the meetings, group secretaries and a few others he knew by name; a pretty lad called Jeff, very well spoken but no side to him, laughing and joking with Mark and Mike, the politicals, a couple of girls (one of whom made a bee-line for Maeve, or possibly the Twiglets), the back room filling up with more and more people, looking at the books, not many interested in the real contents, but happy just to giggle at the titles.

Just on eight o’clock and Maeve caught Gethin’s eye, and he got up to stumble through a speech.

‘Okay, everyone, just want to say thanks for coming tonight... and especially thanks to those of you who brought books in; we will return them after the display ends. We’re just about ready to hand out the voting slips for the first round now, but before that happens I just want to talk you through the titles in case there’s any you missed...’

He broke off as there the shop door opened and the bell chimed. Maeve gave a little gasp and put her hands to her mouth and Gethin turned at the sound of an elegant, languid voice.

‘I do hope you haven’t started without me, Gethin-love... I would have been sooner but these blasted heels...’

Jonathan!

Except... not Jonathan. Exuberant orange wig, fake fur coat with a huge sparkly bow brooch, charcoal geometric dress...

Gethin swallowed, grinned, and went to greet the newcomer.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to introduce this evening’s compere, a dear friend of my Aunty, all the way from somewhere near Liverpool, the amazing Phyllis...’

He helped Jonathan out of his coat while the gathered people cheered and clapped, Maeve enthusiastic and coming forward with script and hefty glass of wine.

‘Goodness! You look familiar!’ she said with a laugh. ‘Are you Jonathan Blake’s sister, by any chance?’

‘If I am, dear, my mother’s in for a shock...’ Jonathan took a swig of wine, gave Gethin a quick one-armed hug and took the floor. 

‘Hello, everyone, and thank you for coming to the first ever “Gay’s the Word” Scandalous Book Contest, where it is always much more fun to judge the book by its cover but could lead to great disappointment... Anyway, enough of that, let’s have a look at what we’ve got, shall we..?’ Jonathan glanced at Gethin’s attempt at a speech, crossed to the book shelves and took down the first one he liked the look of. ‘Oh, I say...! “In and Out of Florence”, does that ring any bells? By the way,’ he went on in an aside, ‘that’s one name I never use for the act...’

He carried on through the list, with an aside here and there... ‘Oh, yummy! Anyone fancy a spread from the “New Radiation Cookbook”? You’ll be glowing with health... or something...’ and “Three Weeks in Wet Sheets”, well, that takes me back... Now, it’s time to take a few minutes to browse the titles and then cast your votes! Your Top Five, thank you, and then our lovely adjudicator will tally them all up... now, is it Maeve or Gethin adjudicating...?’

Having passed out the voting forms, Gethin managed to work around the room so that eventually he was standing next to Jonathan.

‘Thank you for coming. Hope you haven’t blown your career coming here tonight?’

‘Oh, my understudy was only too happy... Pip wants Maeve’s phone number, do you think she’ll mind?’

‘No, I’m sure she won’t. And don’t change the subject, are you sure it’s okay?’

‘We’re opening in Islington two weeks on Monday; I’ve signed the contract. A week off and a week rehearsing... it’s all done, they can’t touch me for it... besides, I wanted to be here, Gethin-love.’

‘Thank you. So pleased to see you.’

‘Even though I’m in a dress?’

‘Of course even though you’re in a dress. Besides, it’s one I chose for you. Gorgeous, you are.’

‘I almost called you last night.’

‘I know. I knew it wasn’t you when the phone didn’t ring.’

Jonathan gave a laugh and slid his arm around Gethin’s back.

‘And look at you with the dramatic eyes... missed you, Geth.’

‘And you, of course.' An idea occurring, the worst idea ever, but Gethin had to, somehow... 'Listen, after it winds up tonight... could you stay for a bit?’

‘Now, that sounds like quite an offer!’ 

Jonathan winked, and Gethin grinned himself out of his fear, and but for Maeve scraping back her chair from where she’d been taking in the voting papers and tallying them up, he might have forgotten himself and kissed his boyfriend, there and then, in front of the crowd.

‘Sorry to butt in,’ Maeve said, coming over. ‘How are you wanting to do this, Gethin? Lots of the books only have one or two votes, but there’s already a clear winner...’

‘Well, you don’t want it to be over too soon, do you Gethin-love?’ Jonathan said with another wink, causing Maeve to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh. ‘Let me see... oh, yes, I do like the sound of that one... well, no not literally, but it does conjure up an image...’

‘Give them five minutes with their drinks, line up the top five and tell them to vote for their top three in order. Otherwise we’ll be scribbling out half the titles on the voting forms and it’ll just look messy...’

‘Don’t worry; I’ll fill in for you, as it were, while you get that organised. And I’ll have a refill, when I’m done...’

He drained his glass and clapped his hands for attention, taking the floor as if he owned it and launching into a version of his Phyllis routine, talking about a village visited on holiday... 

‘Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch they call it, Heaven only knows who came up with that one, it sounds like the worst game of Scrabble ever...’

‘Where was that, again?’ Gethin asked, looking up from reordering the books to be rewarded by a smile as Jonathan repeated the name again, perfectly, getting a laugh and a smattering of applause.

‘He’s good,’ Maeve said. ‘He should do this properly. You know, like an act. On stage.’

‘Well, I’ll let you tell him, if you like.’

‘...So, I think now we’re ready for the exciting second round of voting... Oh, dear! “The New Radiation Cookbook” is out... funny, I thought that one would light up your faces... By the way, I am delighted to announce that the first prize, going to the supplier of the chosen title, will be two tickets to the opening night of the forthcoming production of Hey, Fly Boy, opening in Islington in just over two weeks from now... second prize is four tickets, two for the opening night... and two for the second night... Over to our lovely hosts for further instructions...’

Gethin went to get Jonathan’s refill of wine, pouring himself a glass at the same time, leaving Maeve to explain the voting and pass out more paper.

‘It’s still going to be over early at this rate,’ Jonathan said.

‘It’ll probably suit most of them; a couple of free drinks and then on to a pub or club somewhere; look at young Jeff over there, you don’t think he got dressed up like that just to vote for a book called “Shag the Caribou”, do you?’

‘No... I think he probably got dressed up like that to appeal to Ken at the back... I take your point, though. As long as you don’t mind it finishing early?’

‘No, hadn’t really thought how long it would go on. Anyway, with you here, it could finish now for all I care.’

‘Oh, you do say the sweetest things...!’

Waiting until everyone seemed to have finished with their pens and bits of paper, Gethin cleared his throat.

‘Okay, everyone, any more votes...? Last few minutes to make your choices, then come and get yourselves a top-up while your adjudicators total up the votes and reveal the winners... And, as well as Jonathan Blake’s very generous donation of tickets, there will also be book tokens for use in the shop for the donors of the top three...’

Maeve collected in the papers and Gethin was kept busy serving drinks while he should really have been counting votes.

‘Geth, can Mark have a word with everyone?’ Mike from the political group asked.

‘Yes, suppose so. You want a drink?’

‘Cheers, I’ll have a lager, yeah.’

So while Gethin and Maeve sorted out the winners, Mark spoke out on his latest political ideals, expounding with passion on the subject – what it was Gethin wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed important – filling in the time nicely until they were ready to hand Jonathan the list of winners and who had brought them in.

‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, honoured guests and book donors, here are your top three transformative titles...’ Jonathan took a breath. ‘In third place, we have the oft-requested and always disappointing “Scouting for Boys”... yes, be careful, it really isn’t a manual... and that one was brought in by... by the lovely Steph, well now, I’m surprised at you...!’ With a wink. ‘Second, not that I’d fancy it myself, “Three Weeks in Wet Sheets” and that was brought in by Tony Parkinson... nice one, Tony... but our winner by an easy mile is “Drummer Dick’s Discharge...” All right, who brought that to the party...?’

From the back of the room, pretty lad Jeff raised his hand and grinned.

‘Oh, I’d keep that quiet if I were you... Congratulations, and well done!’

Applause, Gethin handing out book vouchers, Jeff explaining excitedly that the book had been in the family for generations, a Sunday School prize originally, yes, he would have to have it back after, and when could he come and see the play, he’d heard all sorts of stories...?

Enough alcohol left for another round of drinks. Gethin got behind the counter and retrieved the book Maeve had found earlier and thought part of the competition.

‘Everybody, can I have your attention?’ he called out. ‘Before you all clear off and find another party to go to, I just want to take a moment to thank Jonathan Blake, not only for donating to the prize fund but for giving up his valuable time to come here tonight and perform, and compere for us as the amazing Phyllis...’ A round of applause, and when it died down he went on. ‘Jonathan. As a mark of gratitude, I’d like you to accept this on behalf of “Gay’s the Word” and I hope you enjoy it.’

He handed over the book, hastily wrapped in a paper bag to disguise it, and watched as Jonathan uncovered it and read the title, holding it high with a laugh.

‘Well, fuck me! “Fairies on the Doorstep”! I’ve been after a copy of this for ages! Thank you, Gethin Roberts; you remembered!’

‘Jonathan Blake – Phyllis – you’re welcome.’ 

*

Half nine, all the guests gone, Maeve put a few random empty plastic cups on the table and reached for her jacket.

‘I feel bad leaving you with all this clearing up to do, Gethin, but if I don’t get my train...’

‘I’ll stay,’ Jonathan said. ‘Give him a bit of a hand.’

‘That’s nice of you. I’ll be in tomorrow, half eleven okay?’

‘That’s great, Maeve. And thanks for helping out tonight.’

‘Goodnight, then.’

The shop door closing, the bell jangling, Gethin locking up and finding Jonathan right behind him.

‘Alone at last, Gethin-love.’

‘It’s been too long, Jonathan-cariad. Um... I’m... just going to leave the clearing up for the morning, I think. Something I need to do... must show you... tonight...’

‘That sounds fun! Except that really, it sounds a little ominous, too...’

‘Don’t worry about it. I just need ten minutes or so, would you mind waiting down here?’

‘No. Not if I can kiss you first...? I can still kiss you?’

‘Of course. We only agreed, you needed space, while the play was on. Nothing about not kissing each other.’

It was sweet and tender and a little bit sad, a little bit scary, because although he hoped he was doing the right thing, at the same time Gethin was worried it would be too much, he’d frighten Jonathan off... but it was going to have to be done, and better now, really, while he was feeling brave enough, open enough...

‘Bring the wine, when you come. You might want it.’

Gethin kissed Jonathan’s cheek, inhaling the dry, pink smell of his face powder, and climbed the steps to his flat as if they were the north face of the Eiger.


	33. Mirror Images

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Gethin confronts his reflection with Jonathan at his side...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to reiterate that all suppositions are just that, and not based on fact, that this story is entirely predicated on the characters from the film 'Pride', and bear no resemblance whatsoever to actual persons.

In the flat, Gethin put lights on, gas fire, kettle on to boil and then ran up the second flight to the bedroom, where he pulled the skirt suit out and dropped it on the bed. His breathing was fast and sharp, whether from the stairs or from anxiety he didn’t really want to know, but the sense of having to do this, and do it now, was growing in him.

Better get it out in the open, where both he and Jonathan could see it. Maybe it would help them see where they were going and, if that ended up being in different directions, better sooner than later.

But he really didn’t want that to happen.

He left his shirt on, a green one Jonathan had admired a few weeks before, and which went well with the darker wool of the suit, and pulled on jacket and skirt, discarding his jeans, taking off shoes and socks. He’d managed to find a woven raffia hat in light green and a pair of flat shoes that almost fitted – they were an eight – and as long as he didn’t have to walk in them... funny how the shoes made the whole thing seem complete...

He carried a chair in to the second bedroom and put the light on, angling the mirror so when he was sat in the chair he’d be seeing himself, and went to the door.

‘Jonathan? If you want to come up...’

‘On my way. Bringing the wine...’

Gethin had time to sit, to put the hat squarely on his head and fold his hands on his lap before he heard Jonathan on the landing below.

‘Geth? Where are you?’

‘Up here. Small bedroom.’

As yet he hadn’t looked in the mirror – he’d mastered the art, recently, of not looking in the mirror until he knew he was ready, and took a breath in preparation.

And then, just as he heard the door creak loud as Jonathan pushed it open, he looked.

‘Well, fuck me sideways and send for reinforcements!’ Jonathan muttered. ‘What the bloody hell’s going on, Geth?’

‘See in the mirror?’ Gethin asked, his voice halt, trembling, but still steadier than he’d expected. ‘The... the individual in the hat?’

Blurred and out of focus, Jonathan’s reflection took a seat on the end of the zedbed, rubbing his hands together, eyes on Gethin’s mirrored face.

‘Yes, I see. What is it, Geth-love? What – who are you showing me?’

‘Why it went wrong, that time I saw myself in your dress. All I could see was her. My mother. But, see... haven’t seen her in fifteen years, thereabouts... bit of a shock...’

‘I can imagine. And... all the things you must have said to each other, it all came rushing back...’

Gethin nodded, solemn, staring at his own eyes.

‘And then... I haven’t spoken to her since I left, not a word, in all that time...’

Jonathan got up and stood at Gethin’s back, resting his hands on his shoulders and giving him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He bent to bring his mouth close to Gethin’s ear, spoke the words in his heart, even though they didn’t really seem to fit, at first.

‘God, she was a looker, your mum, wasn’t she? Look at those eyes, burning with Welsh fire... must have been hard, looking into those eyes and seeing love there... uncompromising... I suppose sometimes you have to be hard to be safe, to protect the people you love... I see where you get your looks from, though, beautiful, gorgeous Gethin... Dark hair, like you? Finely built, delicate?’

Gethin nodded. 

‘Short, slim. Hair to her neck, just. Always waves, a set. Always black, never a hint of grey. When I was little, I used to think she was like a lovely picture of a woman, not real at all... Aunty Dilys was more approachable, I think. My Mam – Mum – she... on her own, see. Bringing me up. Never went hungry, mind. But it wasn’t easy for her. She sort of got locked into a certain way of thinking and...’

‘I know the sort. Strong because she had to be, and that can knock the softness out of you.’

‘She gave up so much for me. Put up with so much, to bring me up... and I repaid her by turning out like this...’

‘Now, you shouldn’t say that about yourself...’

But Gethin was listening to someone else now, a voice louder than Jonathan’s so loud, so insistent it burst out of him, the voice sharp and shrill, the accent a pronounced staccato, not a soft lilt.

‘What did I ever do to deserve this? Brought you up proper, I did, Church and Chapel and the Good Lord knows you’ll burn, burn in Hell, and after all I’ve done for you, keep you safe, and you turn out like this? Sinful, you are, sinful and damned and it’s a judgement on me, that’s what it is, shameful...’

Gethin fell silent, his dark eyes tragic and enormous in his face. His mouth fell open as he sucked in a breath, let it out slow and shaking.

‘I couldn’t keep on hearing it,’ he said in low tones. ‘Day after day and night on night, when I went out, when I came in... she couldn’t cope, couldn’t accept it. Me, she couldn’t accept me. One minute I was her little boy, apple of her eye, the next I was this demon monster child, a viper she’d harboured in her bosom...’

‘Of course, you weren’t any different from how you were the day before she knew... and you think, well, it’s my mother, she loves me, it’s bound to be okay, right...?’

‘Knew she wouldn’t like it. Didn’t think she’d tell me God hated me and would let me burn, though...’ Gethin tried to smile. ‘Prob’ly didn’t help the way it came out...’

‘Want to tell me?’ Jonathan squeezed Gethin’s shoulders gently. ‘Had you known long yourself, or was it all still new and scary for you anyway?’

‘I’d known for a little while... worked on the fair on the front at Rhyl. Normal to flirt with the girls, get them to stay on the rides, spend more money on the stalls... found I enjoyed flirting more with the boys... one or two flirted back, went from there, really. It was... that first summer, it was great, easy, holiday visitors, day trippers, weekenders... no ties, learning my way around...’

He broke off to sigh.

‘Of course, it didn’t last... winter, there’s no-one. Place is dead, except for residents... but summer comes round again, eventually. Then one year, that year...’ 

He paused again, turned to look up into Jonathan’s eyes. ‘Did you bring the wine, cariad? Think a glass would help with the next bit...’

‘Of course. Won’t be a minute.’

Really, Gethin just wanted a moment alone. Well, with his reflection.

Strange how calm he looked, when inside he was shaking and trembling so hard he felt he was on the point of a seizure, when everything was so visceral, when the turmoil swept around him, jumbling up his sense of self so he hardly knew what he was going to say next, whose words were going to fall out of his mouth...

‘Here, Gethin-love.’ 

Jonathan was back with kind, wary eyes, and just a suggestion of a smile on his sympathetic mouth. He handed Gethin a glass of wine, pulled the edge of the folding bed forward so he could sit on it and still be close enough to reach out if Gethin needed him.

‘What’s the next bit, then? Guessing you didn’t find a way to sit down and say, ‘Mum, you might have noticed I don’t bring girls home and it isn’t because the place is never tidy...’...?’

Unable to help himself, Gethin smiled and sipped his wine. Jonathan’s remark had broken some of the tension.

‘Ah, the place was always tidy! Except my room, and she nagged me enough that I had to keep it reasonable or she’d have been in to clean it herself, and God only knows what she’d have said if she’d looked under the mattress...’

‘Cleanliness being next to Godliness, and all that?’

Gethin nodded.

‘Yes, that was her. No matter what else was going on, you were never too poor to buy soap, or too busy to use it. Everything scrubbed to within an inch of its life, including my neck, when I was a nipper... it mattered, I suppose, that she seemed to be as good as everyone else, even if they said she was no better than she ought to be...’

‘Oh, is that how it was...?’

‘I dunno. Never asked, never dared... don’t remember my dad, anyway. But he might have just lit out, and the gossip would have been as bad if I’d had a father who left us as if I’d never had one at all. But I got the feeling he didn’t stick around when Mum found out she was expecting me.’

‘Christ, can’t imagine what that’s like, not knowing... must have been bloody hard, back then, whichever it was...’

‘Yes. I’m not... I’m not saying it wasn’t hard, that she didn’t try, but... I said some things. When it came out.’

‘When you came out.’

‘We’d gone out to Llandudno, day trip, Aunty Dilys paid it for us, on the coach for the day. Bus was cheaper, but this made it more of a treat, like. Mam had baked scones, Aunty Dilys brought sandwiches. There was some parade or other, a circus, an end-of-the-pier show thing, a theatrical troop, I don’t know now. We watched the parade, me in the middle between them. I’d be...seventeen, maybe. Discovered boys the year before, not legal, of course, but when did that stop anyone who was keen?’

He paused to take a gulp of wine.

‘There were all sorts in the parade, obviously, old and young, couples... young men holding hands, open about being gay, enjoying being on show where it was safe... Mum didn’t like it. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed,’ she said, ‘not in front of decent people!’ Aunty Dilys tried to calm her down, saying it wasn’t hurting anyone, and these theatrical types, it might not mean anything... and she sort of reached out and gave my arm a squeeze, where Mum couldn’t see, and I knew Dilys knew, or suspected, but didn’t care, didn’t mind... and that might have... might have made me less cautious...’

Another gulp of wine. Jonathan took the empty glass off him and filled it up, handed it back in silence.

‘But Mum was unstoppable. She started on about what would their mothers say if they knew, break any mother’s heart it would, and Dilys tried to say any mother would still love her child, surely, no matter what they were, what they’d done... I knew she was trying to help, but it didn’t, and then Mam answering, saying what were their mothers thinking, had to be their fault, shouldn’t be allowed, letting them grow up to be nancy-boys, not teaching them right from wrong... and... and I sort of broke inside...’ He stared at the mirror. ‘What do you mean, Mum? Do you mean this is your fault, that I’m like this? Or is it still going to be my fault, it is, isn’t it, always my fault? I’m a disappointment to you, nothing I do is ever right, and now this, but I can’t help it, Mum, don’t know if I would if I could, but this is me, I don’t like girls, are you saying you did this to me?’

He shook his head and took a breath, hid behind the wineglass again.

‘I forget exactly what. A lot of, how dare I talk to her like that, and what was I saying, anything for attention, was it? Dilys trying to calm her, calm me, saying now wasn’t the place or the time and Mum saying, it would never be the time, or the place, for me to come out with such filth and she didn’t think she could bear to look at me... I pulled away from Dilys, got myself home on the bus, packed a bag, thinking about those men in the parade, holding hands so open and free and brazen and I knew if I stayed it was always ever going to be furtive and dirty and Mum’s eyes cold and hard, her arms folded across her chest to keep me out...’

‘What did you do, love?’

‘It was summer, I was working, knew I could ask my boss for a transfer to Prestatyn, along the road a bit, live cheap and save up a bit and then move on somewhere else for the winter... but before I could leave, Mam and Dilys got back. Bus was slower than the coach, see, even though they left later...Dilys put the kettle on, made us sit down opposite each other at the table, her back to the door so I couldn’t run out there and then. ‘You didn’t mean it,’ she said, ‘either of you. It was the shock of it coming out like that. Now, if you’ve got something to tell your mother, Gethin, now is the time, and no need for shouting, right?’ And she put a pot of tea down on the table, as if it was a referee.’

He sighed and tipped his head to one side, talking directly to the reflection of his mother in the mirror, going back all those long years to the day it had happened.

_‘... I’m a homosexual, Mum. Gay. Don’t like girls, it’s not illegal any more, it’s okay...’_

_‘There is no way on God’s good earth, young man, that this is ever going to be ‘okay’...’_

_‘It’s just how I am. People are, these days. You just have to accept it... I did...’_

_‘It’s a sin, Gethin, don’t you understand? A sin, and you’ll burn in Hell for it! Your immortal soul in danger, and all for what? You can’t do this, son...’_

_‘You don’t get to choose, Mum. You are how you are and... this is me. How I am.’_

_‘Well, you just have to stop! I am not having a perverted, sinful creature like you under my roof!’_

_‘I’m already packed.’_

_‘You’re too young to live alone. You’re only seventeen.’_

_‘You won’t have me here...’_

_‘No, I said I won’t have a pervert here! On Sunday, we’ll go to Chapel and we’ll pray about this and...’_

_‘No, we won’t. You can’t pray it out of me, you can’t change me...’_

Gethin shook his head.

‘Aunty Dilys took me in. It was hard, getting to work, well, getting back after, mostly. It settled down a bit, Mam not accepting me, me not apologising for it. Moved back home after a few weeks, quiet-like. Just sort of went back to how we were before, only not talking about it. About anything much. Wasn’t easy. Got through the summer somehow, swapped from the fair to one of the cafes when the season ended, meant I was home more normal hours, turned eighteen almost without noticing, Mum and I started talking again, but not in a nice way, you know? If I stayed out late, little snide remarks about where’d I been, no don’t tell me, don’t want to know, town’s full of dirty old men, cheapening yourself, even though I might not have done anything but have a drink, go to the pictures... soon she she’d be in full flow, fire and brimstone, judgement on her, all that sort of thing... I don’t say I was the perfect son, but I never – never went home drunk, or with a bloke, or stayed out all night, and I never shouted at her again, only ever that once, at Llandudno, and that was only to make her hear me...’ He ducked his head down, knowing his voice had tears in it now. ‘It was worse than I thought it would be, the sneaking around, feeling wrong and dirty when I hadn’t before she knew. Soon as I could get a job away, I moved out, proper. Said goodbye, it flared up into one more row. Tried to say sorry, but the door was shut before I had chance.’

‘And you’ve never spoken since?’

Gethin shook his head.

‘That was the worst of it, when I looked in the mirror and saw... I just realised how much I missed her... Still, no more rowing and silences and having to explain to the neighbours that I was ‘artistic’, as she started calling me... she’s better off without a bastard queer disappointing son, going to burn in Hell anyway, right?’

Jonathan’s reflected eyes were unsure.

‘I don’t know about that. If she wanted you enough to keep you after you were born, surely she misses you?’

‘I... well, that was before I was gay, wasn’t it? I just... wish I could talk to her. Explain.’

‘Well, go ahead.’ Jonathan nodded towards the mirror. ‘There she is. What do you want to say?’

‘S... sorry. I want to say sorry, Mum. Not for being what I am, but for not being what you wanted... it’s different, see? I... are you okay? You know I love you, right, but I can’t... can’t...’

He shook his head and turned away. Jonathan crouched down at his side, took his hand and spoke into the mirror.

‘Mrs Roberts, you don’t know me... but I’ve got to know your son a little, and I want you to know him like I do. He’s kind, and generous, he’s thoughtful. Got a temper on him, fights his corner when he has to, but never...he never sets out to hurt anyone. Which is rare in this scene, I can tell you, but... maybe you don’t want to know about that. But you do want to know about Gethin, and... well, he’s one of the bravest, strongest men I know, he’s gentle, but never weak, he’s a dynamo of courage and he’s... he’s full of fire and danger but so beautiful, a fierce and wonderful tiger of a son, the things he’s faced... you’d be proud of him, you’d have to be. And if you can’t love him as he is, well, I’m sorry; you’re the loser there, not him. Because I love him, and if I have to, I’ll love him enough for both of us. If he’ll let me, after the mess I’ve made of things...’

Gethin laughed behind the prickle of tears and grabbed hold of Jonathan, pulling him in tight to a hug, shivering and shuddering against him. The hug turned into a cuddle, became a kiss, and Jonathan smiled and wiped a finger across Gethin’s cheek.

‘Gethin-love, that mascara of yours is making a run for it all the way down your face...’

‘Not surprised, really. Help me take it off?’

‘Love to. And why stop at the mascara? What about the hat and shoes and the skirt suit – which is terribly aging, darling...?’

‘And you, still in your working clothes?’

‘Radox bath for two...?’

‘Sounds like the perfect way to end the evening.’

*

‘I hate to mention it,’ Jonathan said, once they were entwined together in a hot, foamy and blue-tinted bath, more wine in their glasses, ‘but... it was never about the dress, then?’

‘No, never about the dress; I told you it wasn't about the dress! Just about... about the shock of seeing my mother looking back at me. You should see what else I’ve got in my wardrobe...’

‘Really?’

Gethin smiled, felt his face flush.

‘Not your size, I’m afraid. Show you later.’

‘I’ll look forward to that... Geth-love, I’m a mess,’ Jonathan said. ‘I know it, the world knows it. Even Luke knew it, although he didn’t care, didn’t see. And that helped me not see it either. Made me feel it didn’t matter, I suppose, even if it was only because I didn’t matter...’

‘Of course you matter, Jonathan...’

‘Geth, it sounds daft, but I didn’t want to give the dressing-up up. I tried, I really did – but I wasn’t over it... I discovered it wasn’t just a phase, not for me, it’s another bit of my personality...’

‘You know what your problem is?’

‘Yes, I’m selfish, loud, demanding...’

‘Too much bloody personality, that’s all. So there’s Jonathan Blake, and Jonathan-in-a-Dress Blake, and they’re both gorgeous...’

Gethin leaned forwards, making waves, not caring as long as he could reach to kiss Jonathan-naked-in-the-bath Blake.

‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘Even naked in a bath, the brightness of you... like a kite, you are, even now. Perhaps you just need a hand on your kite string, sometimes. Not to control you, or hold you back, cariad.’ Gethin kissed him again. ‘But to set you free, help you soar.’

‘Well, it works both ways; you have to remember I’m the kite at the end of your string, you know. When you’re too bogged down by work, I’ll fly, and take you with me, tell you all about the view, you’ll be there too, flying beside me, head in the clouds, feet on the ground, the perfect partnership. Well?’

‘Sounds perfect. We’ll need to remember, when you’re working you get fractious. Remind me you’re stressed, we’ll find a way for you to let off steam that doesn’t involve us yelling at each other.’

‘If you tell me when you’ve got your own stuff going on; I’m not used to you strong, silent types.’

‘All right. My mother...’ Gethin paused, realised he’d been about to say something about her that had nothing to do with burning in Hell and being a disappointment. It felt like a breakthrough ‘My mother used to bake bread. When she’d fallen out with Mrs Prendergast from down the way about the dog barking.’

‘Did she, did she really?’

‘Always seemed calmer after it. You could try it, I suppose.’

‘Yes, why not?’ Jonathan grinned. ‘Not tonight, though.’

‘No, not tonight. By the way, what you said before... when you were talking to her...to my mother... you said you love me...’

‘I did say that. Because it’s true, I do love you, Gethin Roberts.’

‘Just so you know – I love you too, Jonathan-Cariad-Blake.’

Jonathan grinned and leaned forward in turn to kiss Gethin’s beautiful mouth, sloshing water outside the bath to puddle on the worn lino.

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Books:
> 
> Many, if not all, of the following books have at least a walk-on part in the story; I am sure this is not something their authors would ever have imagined...
> 
> Fairies on the Doorstep, Lucy Walker 1948, Sydney, Australian Publishing Company, sometimes attributed to Dorothy Sanders...   
> Scouts in Bondage, Geoffrey Prout, 1930, or 1935  
> Scouting for Boys: a Handbook for Instruction in Good Citizenship, Arthur Baden Powell p. Horace Cox from 1908  
> Gay Story Book, Enid Blyton pub. Hodder & Stoughton 1946  
> Queer Shipmates, 1962, Archibald Bruce Campbell, published by Phoenix House  
> Cock Tugs: ‘Cock Tugs, a Short History of the Liverpool Screw Towing Company.’ James Birchall and company, Liverpool, 1963  
> The Gay Boys of Old Yale. John Denison Vose,  
> Fanny at School, Frances Gage  
> Invisible Dick, Frank Topham p DC Thomson & Co 1926  
> The Kinki Tourist’s Guide anon c.1960  
> Fun with Dick and Jane  
> Biggles Takes It Rough, WE Johns  
> Flashes from the Welsh Pulpit J Gwrnoro Davies (ed) Hodder & Stoughton 1889  
> Under Two Queens  
> The New Radiation Cookery Book, New World 1930 to 1968  
> Single Handed Cruising, Frances Bernard Cooke p. Edward Arnold 1919  
> Shag the Caribou  
> Memorable Balls, James Laver p Derek Verschoyle 1954  
> A Love Passage, Lady Harriet Phillimore p. Christian knowledge society,1908  
> Common Truths from Queer Texts, Rev Joseph Gay p Arthur Stockwell 1908  
> *  
> In and Out of Florence: Vernon Lyman Kellog, New York : Holt 1910  
> Joyful Lays: Rev R Lowry and W Howard Doane: New York and Chicago: Biglow & Main 1886  
> Drummer Dick’s Discharge, Beatrix M De Burgh p. Ernest Mister 1902. Actually an honourable discharge from the Armed Forces.   
> Three Weeks in Wet Sheets ‘A Moist Visitor to Malvern’ Hamilton, Adams & Co, 1856
> 
> Many of the above titles came to my notice thanks to the wonderful 'Fish Who Answer the Telephone and other Bizarre Books' , by Brian Lake (Author), Russell Ash (Author). It's provided me with many hours of quiet delight.
> 
> Finally, my thanks go to everyone who has supported me in my first adventure into this fandom. It's been a joy and a delight and I hope to add more to this small, but wonderful collection of Pride fics in the future.


	34. Epilogue: 'If You Judge a Book By Its Cover...' You Deserve All You Get...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the books go on display...

Jonathan’s arm was loosely around Gethin’s shoulders as they both looked at the scurrilous books.

‘No, darling, I think you should ditch the librarian and let the books find their own narrative... pair them, don’t line them up... let the eye be drawn to a little grouping, a pair, a ménage a trois...’

He jumped up and within seconds had rearranged some of the titles in new and interesting configurations, making Gethin laugh.

‘See?’ he said. ‘See what happens when you put “Joyful Lays” next to “Under Two Queens”, isn’t that more interesting...?’

‘It certainly conjures an image...’

‘Great, excellent! I’ll leave you to have a little think, and I’ll dash over to my digs, steal the theatre bus, and be back for lunchtime. Then we can have a theatrical installation this afternoon for when the kindergarten gets here...’

‘They’re under twenty-fives, not under-fives...’

‘Not much difference, if you ask me.’ Jonathan grinned and gave Gethin a hugely, stupidly soppy kiss that had them both grinning. ‘Right, better go and look for the bag I brought with me last night – it’s got my bloke clothes in...’

‘Quarter past nine, better go and open the shop. You did put that key back on your key-ring, didn’t you?’

‘Course I did, Geth-love.’ He pecked Gethin’s cheek. ‘Be back before you know it.’

*

He wasn’t back before Maeve arrived, to giggle at the titles again and listen to the plans for the installation, (outlined by Jonathan after Gethin had let him peek at what else was lurking in the wardrobe... ‘You clever old darling! And I have just the things to go with it...’)

‘Gethin!’ she gasped, when he got to the nitty gritty of the plan. ‘Really?’

He nodded. ‘Really. Not freaked you out, I hope?’

‘No, don’t be silly... I can imagine it of Jonathan... and of a few others who come in here, too... but... well, you look so serious and the... the ones I know tend to be, well... frivolous...’

‘So you know some frivolous sorts, do you?’

‘Oh, working here has been an education... especially Saturday lunchtimes these days...’ Maeve grinned. ‘Well, good luck with it; you’ll be very theatrical, I’m sure!’

*

By the time the first of the First Quarterers began to arrive for their Saturday Chat, the rearrangement of the bookshop’s window display had already begun. A small crowd of passers-by had gathered, mostly clustered around a beatifically beaming Jonathan, his exuberant bow brooch pinned like a cap badge to the side of his beret, hands in pockets holding back his coat and rocking back on his heels a little from time to time. He had attracted the assembled audience by the simple expedient of staring at the books and laughing when anyone was near at hand, sometimes muttering half a title out of loud and shaking his head.

Of course, the First Quarterers stopped to look too, and young Jeff squealed with excitement. 

‘There’s my book, the one that won, there! And... Oh, look, look, look, everyone!!! See who’s doing the window dressing!’

Everyone looked, but not everyone immediately grasped the relevance as the person arranging the display came back to work on another section. Long and shining black hair. Knee length white boots, Cuban heels, laced all the way up the fronts. Impeccable make up; dusky eyes, ultra-long black lashes, bright red lipstick, yellow mini dress.

‘Isn’t that...?’ one of the Quarterers asked behind his hand.

‘Indeed it is,’ Jonathan said, __sotto voce. ‘Keep quiet a bit, will you? Got a live one here...’

He tipped his head fractionally to the front and left where a young man was staring at the significant expanse of shapely legs revealed between boots and hemline.

For himself, though, and for the First Quarterers, it was the arrangement of the books that drew most attention: “Flashes From the Welsh Pulpit” next to “The New Radiation Cook Book”... on a shelf beneath, “Shag the Caribou” which was accompanied by “Kinki Tourists Guide”... “Joyful Lays” was, indeed, coupled with “Under Two Queens” and, centre and front, all other arrangements leading the eye towards it: “Three Weeks in Wet Sheets”; “In and Out of Florence” and “Drummer Dick’s Discharge”...

Small cards flanked the books with snips of information and as a banner was set in place over the entire display proclaiming ‘If You Judge a Book By Its Cover...’, there was a spontaneous explosion of laughter and the window dresser turned and dropped a mock curtsey, grinning.

‘Great legs,’ the young man ogling said, turning to address the nearest person – who just happened to be Jonathan. ‘Wonder what my chances are of getting a phone number...’

‘Wouldn’t try it, my old son,’ Jonathan said. ‘That’s my sweetheart you’re eyeing up.’

‘Oh... sorry... erm... it’s a great outfit, they say the Sixties look is coming back...’

‘Yes, Mary Quant. Boat neck, contrast stitching, diagonal weave... flattering little sleeves, too. A-line, very flattering...’

‘You’re a lucky sod, she’s gorgeous, your girlfriend.’

Jonathan blew the window dresser a kiss. Gethin, in the long black wig and white vintage boots Jonathan had presented him with to accessorise the yellow mini, grinned and blew a kiss back.

‘Thanks, I know,’ Jonathan said to the bystander. ‘But... that’s not my girlfriend.’

‘Hold on... you said...’

‘That’s my boyfriend.’’ Jonathan pointed to the ‘If You Judge a Book By its Cover’ display with a wink. ‘Or didn’t you see the banner?’

**Author's Note:**

> For those who don't know, Frank Spencer was the central character of the BBC sitcom 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave Em' which ran from 1973 to 1978, but which was repeated throughout the 1980s and beyond.


End file.
